Chronic Vertigo
by Kira
Summary: SV; ensemble: SV investigate further into Sloane and Irina's latest partnership, learning more about Vaughn's past than they ever expected
1. Prologue

Title: Chronic Vertigo

Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

Genre: Romance/Action/Adventure

Rating: PG-13

Distribution: Cover Me, Allies All others, please ask.

Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be. 

Summary: It's a race against a clock that has come to the end of it's countdown. 

Sequel Warning! – this is the sequel to Sunlight at the Edge of the World that can be found here under my profile. 

Author's Note: Many thanks to the Campers, Luna, Lia, and Laura Amy. You all rock. 

_Prologue_

Mission Brief 

From: AIC J.D. Bristow

To: Director Kendall

Report of Mission #15371SQ3762: XX, South Africa

Objective: Acquisition of materials and persons Irina Derevko, Arvin Sloane, and XX Sark and their associates.

Agents Present:

AIC J.D. Bristow 

SOp. M.C. Vaughn

Op. S.A. Bristow

Op. M. Dixon

Tech Op. E. Weiss

Home Operations:

Dir. Kendall

Jr. Tech Op. K. Tindale

Arrive XX, South Africa 2236 hours. Op. team to rendezvous 2245 hours inside target. Team split: AIC J. Bristow, Op. M. Dixon; SOp. M. Vaughn, Op. S. Bristow. Team 1 proceeded to north entrance and successfully breached outer parameter. As Team 1 was met with no resistance, they proceeded to security station. Targets were found to be in central room off west side of building. Weiss was informed and target location relayed to Team 2. Team 2 was to proceed to data storage server room to retrieve data before rendezvous at west wall for capture and containment aide of targets. 

Team 1 proceeded to west wall offices only to meet resistance. Detail included 4 armed men. 3 shots fired, 2 Bristow, 1 Dixon. 2 men taken by physical force, 2 by gunfire. Team 1 cleared the area only to find targets were alerted to our presence and had taken measures to insure they would not be captured. Tindale and Weiss consulted for heat signature reading. Began to proceed to outer parameter, met up with S. Bristow. When asked of location of Vaughn, was informed he had stayed behind to finish file download as she came to assist with target capture. 

Tech informed us that targets were proceeding to transportation via north lawn. Myself, Dixon, and S. Bristow went to head them off. Vaughn reported that he had finished with data retrieval and was coming to our location via the east exit. Team continued out north entrance when they heard gunshots. Bristow ran out of view via NE corner of building, followed by myself and Dixon where we found the targets and were promptly surrounded by their agents. 

Vaughn appeared to be injured and was unresponsive to calls. 

Sark offered team's freedom for Vaughn's captivity, claiming to release him as soon as the information he needed pertaining to the equipment was retrieved. Bristow engaged the armed guards. Myself and Dixon followed her, and while we were engaged with the guards, targets escaped under gunfire. Unable to assist Vaughn, the team was ordered to retreat by Dir. Kendall. 

The status of Senior Operations Officer M. Vaughn remains unknown at this time. 


	2. Imperfections Part A

Chronic Vertigo 

Chapter 1: Imperfections (Part A)

****

**_Vertigo_**_: sensation as if the external world is revolving around the patient or as if they are revolving in space.  
**Chronic Vertigo**: often not serious but - with small flare ups - permanently present. Lasts for months without any change.  
  
_  
_1 Week Earlier_  
  


It had been 25 minutes and she had yet to come out from the bedroom. While most men grew up with the knowledge that women take long amounts of time to get ready for any occasion, 35 minutes to select a single outfit was a long enough time to gnaw at the edges of Michael Vaughn's patience. His only saving grace was the fact that his now-girlfriend (and subsequently the one still locked in her bedroom) Sydney Bristow, had cable. 

Cable had saved many a man since its invention, giving waiting males something to occupy their time on the other side of the closed door. It had eliminated the random ambling through the apartment, staring at old pictures and week-old magazines. Cable had taken away this 'getting to know you through your things' stage in most relationships. The boyfriends were more likely to stick around for longer since they missed the opportunity to find the objects that would act as warning signs that things might not be as they seem, all because they were too busy watching TV. And, in Vaughn's case, it was a pre-season hockey special recapping the previous season. It was an exciting time of year - pre-season games, while fun in of themselves, were nothing compared to the thrill of the regular game. And he had to be up to date on all the stats of his favorite team, the Kings, before the season started. 

A commercial came onto the screen. Vaughn checked his watch. At this rate, they were going to be late and then whatever outfit Sydney finally decided on wouldn't matter. He sighed and ran a hand through his permanently bed-head styled, ash blond hair. He was going to have to sacrifice the end of the program for her sake. He leaned his head back on the couch and looked in the direction of the still-closed door. 

"We're going to be late. What's taking so long?" he yelled in the door's direction. He had seen this woman change outfits in under a minute, and *now* was the time she decided to take forever? There was a crash on the other side, followed by Sydney mumbling something. The door opened a crack a moment later, her head peaking out at him. Vaughn turned his head to face her. 

"Hey," she smiled, albeit somewhat hesitantly. 

"Hey. You ready?" he asked, hopeful. She bit her bottom lip and shifted nervously. 

"Umm, not exactly," she admitted. Vaughn groaned and ran a hand down his face. At this rate, even he wouldn't be able to save her. 

"What's taking so long?" he repeated himself, his hand still resting on his face. 

"Vaughn, you have no idea how much pressure I'm under to look perfect," she commented, defending herself. Vaughn's hand fell from his face back to his side, his eyes now focused on the ceiling above him. 

"What are you *talking* about?" he whined. Pressure? This was the same Sydney who went on clandestine missions for the CIA, who risked her life on a daily basis? This - no, he wasn't even going to *go* there. There was no way he would be able to figure out what was so hard about this simple meeting. To him, it was nothing. Of course, he should have seen this coming. It seemed as if all women, not just his girlfriend, were infected with this bug of an odd sense of - something. He wasn't going to attempt to figure it all out. Not enough time, even with Sydney still in a state of undress. 

"Vaughn!" she yelled, "I've got to make a good first impression!" He would have gotten up, really, he would have, to tell her she was perfect (which she was) and there was nothing to worry about, but the door slammed shut before he could even lift his head. Great. Just great. Vaughn shook his head and rocked to launch himself to his feet. He made his way over to the door, leaning against the wall next to it on his side, and wrapped his knuckles on the wooden door. 

"Sydney, if you're late, your outfit won't matter," he sing-songed, waiting. 

"What time is it?" she called from inside, pulling pantyhose on quickly. Oh no! He was right! Vaughn was always such a prompt, on time man. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time he was late for anything. He knocked on the door again. 

"4:47, now open up. I might be able to help you," he called through to her. She slipped on a skirt and stumbled to the door while she struggled with putting on a shoe. She propped it open and walked back to the other shoe as he entered the room behind her. The room, he observed, was in a moderate state of disarray, with discarded outfits draped on the end of her bed. The closet was wide open and half-empty. Vaughn laughed as he took in the scene, causing Sydney to pause during her search for a blouse and turn to glare at him. 

"What are you laughing at?" she inquired, putting a hand on her hip. Vaughn shut his mouth quickly, his eyes wide, yet sparkling with humor. 

"This. Sydney, you're perfect they way you are. I don't understand why you're so worried," he said to her, smiling. 

"You men have it so easy," she gaffed, returning to the closet in search of a blouse to go with her conservative black skirt. 

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb any of the clothes already sitting there. 

Sydney pulled a shirt from the closet and held it up, examining it before finally placing it back in the closet. If she could do that for the shirt, why did she have a huge pile on the bed - a pile made up of carelessly tossed clothing items? Vaughn frowned and carefully pushed some clothes out of the way and scooted into a more comfortable position on the bed. She plucked another shirt from the closet, causing him to sigh, slightly annoyed. He had never seen her like this, and instantly re-thought the evening's activities. Sydney whirled to face him. 

"Look at all this I have to choose from! I'm sure you just pulled out something and threw it on before coming over here," she said, scowling a bit as she noticed he'd moved some of her clothes. 

"What was wrong with the outfit you were wearing when I got here?"

"It was too warm for the weather," she promptly answered. She fell silent as Vaughn distractedly traced the faint ivory pattern on the bedspread. Sydney pulled on the classy yet casual blouse she'd been holding in her hand and sat down slightly behind him before putting a reassuring hand on his should. The tracing stopped, but he didn't look up. 

"Is there something bothering you?" she asked quietly. He shrugged like a 10-year-old, her hand slipping off his shoulder from the movement. 

A cheer emitted from the TV in the other room. 

The pair appeared as a moment frozen in time, showing joy and sadness in the same poignant frame. How those two emotions could be shown equally at the same time was a mystery held in their own hearts. For a moment, they questioned this joy they'd felt in the last month - was it real, or had they been longing for this time for so long they found themselves acting to fulfill this dream? The freed mind was no place for doubtful thoughts, and Sydney, tired of dwelling on the sadness her life had brought her, patted Vaughn on the back and stood. This was her happiness, her normality, and complication only made life more interesting, worth living. 

"We're going to be late, or have you forgotten?" she smiled. Vaughn smirked and fell on his back, atop her clothes. 

"I'm resigned to my fate," he remarked, his arms lying out on the bed. He was quite cute when that playful smirk played across his face, and had she not been worried about wrinkling her outfit, she would have pounced on him in a minute. He was wide open and knew she could do nothing. Perhaps he understood her more than she'd originally surmised - or wished he didn't. sounds awkward

"Oh, well I guess we could just cancel - "

"No! That would mean death!" Vaughn exclaimed, sitting up on the bed. He immediately stood up and grabbed her hand, whisking her out of the room and past the living room. She laughed, covering her mouth with her free hand, looking towards the TV. 

"Vaughn! The TV!" she exclaimed, but he was already out the door. He was certainly rushed, pushed to be on time (something she was constantly thankful for) by this unseen force with equally unseen consequences. Her apprehension returned. 

At least she had a 30 minute care ride to calm herself down. Vaughn's mother *couldn't* be as difficult as her own. 

Could she?


	3. Imperfections Part B

**Chapter 1: Imperfections**  
_Part B_

Does she know you're CIA? They'd been in the car for only 20 minutes, but with Vaughn's accelerated driving and the lighter than normal traffic she could tell they were nearing their destination. Sydney steered the lighthearted conversation off the early stages of the drive towards issues that had to be cleared up before arriving. Things like his matriarch's knowledge of her son's profession – how horrible would it be if she simply blurted it out when she knew nothing of what she was talking about? Pretty bad. Vaughn laughed as he twisted the wheel down one of numerous identical-looking streets. 

I've never told her directly, but I suspect she's figured it out by now, he answered. She's a very smart woman, very observant, he added on, his voice dropping with the last part, as if he were talking to himself. Sydney made a mental note to file that away for later use. Observant, huh? She could just imagine Vaughn running in the house after some mischief only to be cornered by his mother, who could see straight through his lies and pathetic attempts to cover up his actions. Of course, she was sure they matched wits often; the Vaughn she knew was no man of simply normal intelligence. 

Sydney sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears. So we'll have to lie.

I wouldn't go that far, Vaughn said, turning to give her a quick, sympathetic look before stopping at a stop sign. 

Goes back to that observant remark, doesn't it? she inquired. It was so nice out here, away from the congestion of the city. She looked out the window, the quaint, nice neighborhood of smaller-sized family homes rushing by outside the window. For some reason, she always pictured his mother living alone in a house too large for simply one person, yet loved just the same. 

She'll call you on them, he told her, smirking. But you can try; I regard it as some kind of game.

Oh? Well, then your line of work is perfectly fitted to you, Sydney retorted. Vaughn's expression darkened for a second, a flash of something dark in his eyes, but it was gone before Sydney could even notice. But she noticed something, as the conversation fell silent after her off-hand comment. She crossed her arms and set her head to look out the window at the homes whizzing by the window. At least childhood was always the same; happy, innocent, not filled with these games she played now. 

I wouldn't say that, he remarked, echoing what he'd said earlier. I like to think we're fitted for the jobs we have. Sydney turned to face him once again – this was a side of him she'd never heard, rather, she'd seen only glimpses before. She'd slowly begun to realize, in the last five months or so, that he wasn't that different than her, no matter how much she'd thought otherwise earlier in their relationship, or friendship, as it had started off as. He just had a different way of handling it all. While she let it fuel her with anger and let everyone know exactly how she felt about, well, everything in her life; Vaughn internalized it and let it out only after extreme pressure. Sometimes, she wished she could be like him, but she had seen first hand what it did to him. 

She was certainly taking measures to make sure something like that never happened again, though she wasn't sure how successful that undertaking was at the moment. 

I'm so nervous, Sydney finally stated with a gush of pent-up breath. I don't know why, though. You've met my parents and everything went okay, well, okay as it could go considering the circumstances, so I guess – 

Vaughn stated, his voice soft. He reached over and gripped her hand with his right one in an effort to calm her down. You're babbling, he continued once she had quieted down, a smirk, albeit a small one, appearing on his face. He was doing that a lot lately, she observed, but it never seemed to spread all the way into his eyes – it would touch but not linger as if he were always occupied with something else. Of course, it could simply be her projecting her own fears on to him. He seemed to be enjoying her uneasiness, which caused her to believe he knew something she didn't. But if he was happy and comfortable, then there was nothing to worry about, right?

Right.

Sydney could not help but continue to doubt herself as her boyfriend parked the car. Parked, as in they had arrived and there was no turning back. And while she had met, lied to, stolen from, and assaulted numerous people, she had never given a thought to their acceptance of her. She did now. Vaughn seemed, at least to her, like the kind of man who valued his mother's opinion and if the mother didn't like her, then he might – 

Naw, he'd never do that. C'mon, he just opened the car door for her!

It's nice, Sydney commented on the small brick house he was leading her to. Nice and normal, how she continuously told herself she liked life. She felt a pang of envy, wishing she had someplace like this to spend her Thanksgivings at instead of an empty apartment. Would her relationship with Vaughn allow her to join?

She bought it about 10 years ago under the guise of wanting to be closer, he explained, walking her past a pretty and trimmed flowerbed. He was smooth, getting out the explanation without specifying exactly what his mother wanted to be closer to. But I think it was just because she missed California.

An added bonus being that her son lives nearby? Sydney quipped from next to him. He nodded, pulling open the screen door and sticking his head inside. As he called a greeting out to his mom, Sydney took a deep breath and followed him inside. 

The interior of the house was certainly eclectic in nature, filled with things collected over a lifetime. The couch matched a color in the wall, but there was no clear style in the room. Some was old, some was newer, all combined to make it a home. She smiled, walking around the living room slowly behind Vaughn. A few pictures hung on the wall that angled up as the side of the central staircase, older prints from happier years. She paused before a family portrait hung in the middle, slightly larger than the others. To her right, she heard Vaughn stop walking, then head towards her as she looked at faded yet cheerful faces standing together in a sun-filled backyard. The taller man, Vaughn's father (she recognized him from the photo in the file she'd been shown so long ago) stood with his arm around a woman of almost equal height with closely cropped blond hair. In front of them crouched two boys with large dopey grins on their faces. She frowned. 

she asked, Who's that? She pointed to one of the boys who she assumed wasn't him. The two of them appeared about three years apart, almost identical and certainly getting their looks from their father. 

he replied. I'm surprised with you, Syd.

Then who's that? she asked, blushing as she switched who she was pointing at. Vaughn put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. 

My younger brother, Alex. Could have sworn you knew about him, he said. She shook her head. All this time, she'd thought he was an only child, living in his father's shadow. Last I heard, he was living in New York.

'Last I heard?' Michael, I'm disappointed in you, a rich, almost sing-song voice remarked from their right, from the entranceway to the kitchen. The pair turned, Vaughn subconsciously placing a hand on the small of Sydney's back. She smiled at Sydney, who noticed her hair was simply a little longer than in the picture, her face a bit aged, but still smiling. She certainly didn't appear to be a woman who had two sons, one of which was in his thirties. Sydney hoped she could age so well. 

As always, he joked. She shook her head in mock disbelief. 

So, this is Sydney, she said, taking a step towards her. I've heard so much about you, I was beginning to believe he was making you up. Next to Sydney, Vaughn sighed and cocked his head to the side, passively showing his embarrassment. I'm Marie, it's nice to finally meet you. Sydney smiled. Well, let me grab my purse so we can leave. You're 10 minutes late. 

Sorry. It was – Sydney smacked him in the arm before he could finish that sentence. He reached up to rub it, realizing that while most women's playful smacks wouldn't hurt, this was Sydney, who could probably kick his ass. His mother disappeared from view, her feet clicking on the tile in the kitchen, giving the pair a second alone. Vaughn twisted her to him and kissed her quickly. See, she already likes you, he told her, his hands resting on her shoulders. 

How can you tell? she asked, leaning against him. He laughed a true, full laugh unlike the one she heard earlier that day. 

She let us off easy for being late. Trust me; you don't want to hear her tardiness lecture. 

I'm sure you remember every word.

//

It was the fourth time that night Vaughn wished he could hide underneath his chair (though he soon realized that wasn't possible, as he was six feet tall and the chair was two). The air around him was heavy with conversation, a few voices, the annoying ones, sticking out from the blanket of conversational chaos. The atmosphere was casual, relaxed, most of the patrons still dressed in work attire slightly loosened. The man at the table across from him had taken off his tie and laid it on the table where there was space. A woman he'd seen as they walked in had un-tucked her button up. This was a limbo between work and home, a limbo Vaughn seemed to exist in. Sure, he had work, like everyone else sitting around him, but as they could sit here with their badges still on, complaining about the horrible day they'd just had, he couldn't. And after this meal, they could go home and decompress, their mind on nothing more than a nice relaxing night at home. He'd always have to keep his pager handy, always sitting in wait for a page. 

Thus, he lived at work, and in limbo. Or, maybe it was work, and a break from work, his apartment a large office break room with a bed. So was Sydney's house his limbo? His time away from work? He didn't like that option either, and absentmindedly scratched the back of his neck. The women continued to laugh despite his checking-out mentally, completely occupied by embarrassing stories about him. He knew this wasn't a good idea, getting these two together. 

With Alice, he didn't have to worry. She was always so proper, so cold when out in a social situation like this. Plus, his mother never liked her and spoke very rarely when around her. So this dinner was something completely different from the others he'd been at in the last four years and while he wanted to climb under his chair, he loved having the feeling that made him want to. Sydney made him feel alive in so many ways he ought to make a list just to keep track of them. 

He picked at his steak, his mind elsewhere at the moment, not even hearing what the others at the table were saying. That is, until he heard his name being called, and the combination of his mother and Sydney calling it definitely caught his attention, as he only heard his full name when he was in trouble. He didn't like being in trouble. Unless it was for a good cause. 

he pursed his lips, letting the question slip through them. 

Where did you go? Sydney asked, a smile on her face as if it were permanently etched there. She looked like she did at all those dinner gatherings she went on with her friends, before things got too deep, too involved. 

Oh, don't mind him, he's just like his father, always checking out at the oddest times, Marie commented offhand, following it with another sip of her wine. 

Hey, that's not fair, he defended himself. 

Then what were we talking about? Sydney inquired, turning to face him, her head leaning on her open hand. Vaughn smiled a wide smile and crossed his arms across his chest. 

he smugly remarked. Both women started laughing again. 

Arrogant Vaughn, Sydney managed to get out. I kinda like it. This only made Vaughn's smile grow, but Marie's diminished a bit in exchange. A constant reminder of the one thing she completely disagreed with her son over was this girl's method of referring to him by his last name only. And the fact that he wasn't bothered by it at all only reaffirmed his absorption into his job. An absorption that would only get him in trouble or killed, just like his father. It wasn't what she'd wished for her eldest child, but he'd fought her on this, time and time again. 

He hadn't told her what he was doing, but she figured it out soon enough, she knew what to look for this time around. After being blinded by the lies surrounding her husband, Marie had vowed she would never be such a fool ever again, that no one would be able to hurt her again. Yes, she had figured it out soon enough and almost lost him over it. She had never heard him yell so loud before as he did that afternoon 9 years ago, and had it not been for the passion, the fire burning in his haunted eyes, she might not have supported him. 

Now, she had a feeling he was in over his head, falling down the same downward spiral as his father. 

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. Well, I can keep it up.

And surely drive this nice girl away in a week. I have no idea how you keep them around, Michael, Marie commented, a smile plastered on her face. He glanced at her, narrowing his eyes a bit as to read what was wrong with her, but Marie was no open book, and he soon gave up. 

He has his ways. Vaughn is really a wonderful person, Marie, Sydney said to the matriarch. 

It wasn't easy, but I did my best.

With a complete series of lectures you could make a book out of, Vaughn commented. 

Yes, but tell me, Sydney, is he always on time? 

He is! she exclaimed. 

I prove my point. I told you that you'd understand one day, didn't I? The question came out as more of a statement. Vaughn groaned, but agreed with her by giving a simple nod. 

Sydney gave him a measured glance, gazing at his eyes, trying to read them. He was still struggling with understanding his other parent's contribution to him, a struggle she found he was still focused on even though everyone else had let it slip to the back burner. Wait, Vaughn said she was an observant woman, could she know something about the past they didn't know?

She was about to open her mouth to say something when Vaughn's pager went off, followed by her own. The pair plucked them from their sides and read them. 

You are not letting that place dictate your lives, Marie commanded, quieting down a bit as the waitress slipped the check down on the table. We still have desert. The pair turned to look at each other, then Vaughn pulled out his cell phone and called in, rising from his seat and finding a corner in which he could shield the conversation from the restaurant's other patrons. 

That boy never listens, Marie shook her head, her eyes falling from his half-hunched figure to her hands on the table in front of her. 

He's good at his job, though, Sydney defended him in his absence. He won't make the mistakes his father did, she continued, but wished she could have taken it back as soon as the words left her mouth. That topic must be one of those not considered proper for conversation, and she wished they would have had cleared all this up before arriving. Marie's head snapped up, her gray eyes calculating. He-he's told me a little about what – 

He's going to. I've already seen the signs, the ones I missed the first time around. Except for you, she smiled. I couldn't be there for William all the time, when he was away or at the office, but you can be there. You're much better than that Alice girl – she was so fake.

I only met her a few times, Sydney admitted. Didn't like her either time.

Was that because of her, or because she was with Michael? Marie asked. Sydney smiled. 

At the time, I kept telling her it was because I didn't like her personality. But after awhile, I realized it was because of who she was with.

I thought so. He's been making the wrong choices for so long, I'm glad to see he's finally made a good one, the matriarch commented, glancing up at him for a second. 

I can agree with you about Alice, but I don't think he's been making the wrong decisions in his life, Sydney said, getting a little angry. She looked over her shoulder; Vaughn looked engrossed in the phone call he was on, which gave her a little time before he came back. He's good at what he does. He's saved countless lives, including my own, and serves his country as best he can. And you have no idea what he has to deal with every day; I'm not surprised he – And she stopped, remembering a discussion she'd had a week after it all happened, about how he didn't want to tell anyone what had happened. His face had turned a bit red as soon as he finally realized all that he'd done, and said he'd die of shame if it became public knowledge. He was joking, of course. 

He what? Marie inquired, leaning forward. Sydney looked down, her brown hair falling in front of her face. Great, what was she going to do now? Has it come to a point where national security precludes me from finding out what's going on with my own son?

Vaughn swooped down to give Sydney a kiss on the cheek before he moved back to his own seat. This could mean one of two things; the phone conversation went bad, and he needed that for moral support, or it was all okay and he was celebrating. She hoped for the latter, and wished for him to jump into the conversation as soon as possible to save her. Instead, he reached out for the check, and when his mother didn't hand it to him, he frowned. 

Who was on the phone? Sydney asked sweetly. 

Your father. He'd like to see us later, he responded promptly, vaguely. He leaned back in his chair just as he usually did during briefings, when he was thinking over the information he'd just been given. He was supposed to save her from where this conversation had gone and he'd already checked out. Great. 

Your father works with you two as well? Marie observed, still leaning forward. Sydney nodded, somewhat apprehensively and shot her boyfriend a glance. How did things go south so quickly? I'm sure I'm keeping you – 

He said to take our time, Vaughn interjected from nowhere. No rush. 

He paged both of us and it's no rush? Sydney inquired. He nodded. 

I took care of it.

What happened, Sydney? Marie said, obviously referring to words said before. So she hadn't forgotten. And this earned her a sharp look from Vaughn, who was now leaning forward in his chair. 

It was nothing – 

It was *not* nothing! Sydney interrupted him. And since you never told her, you never found out if she had any information that could help! 

Vaughn shot her a dark glance, hoping that would shut her up. She didn't know what she was talking about, she didn't know how much he'd had to work at making everything work just right. 

Marie said simply, attempting to gain his attention. But he had closed his eyes as he worked to calm himself down. How had everything gotten so weird so fast? 

What did my father call about? Sydney asked suddenly, her voice stern. He opened his eyes and ran a worried hand through his short hair. He didn't want to say anything, he didn't want to worry her like he had before – she had already been so nervous about coming out to dinner, and he could see why, now, with her and his mother already arguing with each other. Or, something like that. 

I'll tell you later, he breathed, opening his eyes. 

By the way both of them looked at him, he was sure he just dug himself a grave. Why couldn't there be more room under the chair?  



	4. Belie Part A

**Chapter Two: Belie**  
_Part A_

"I'm glad you two could make it," Kendall remarked as the pair walked into the JTF conference room. Vaughn wondered if the FBI man was ever going to return to his respective branch of the intelligence service, or if he was considering a career here at the CIA. Wasn't he the only FBI man here? Other than that small team of them who moved in a group and never associated with the rest of them, there were none. And here, Vaughn had no office, no desk, just a workstation. Not that he was around that much anymore to use it. 

Jack, as always, set his gaze on them as they took their respective seats, analyzing every part of their movements for anything he could use against them. At least that's what Vaughn thought, as he decided that Jack was the most observing of all the fathers he had to deal with over the years. That, and Vaughn was sure if he did something even remotely wrong, Jack would certainly have no qualms over killing him, or at least hurting him severely. That line of thought most often kept him in line, though he'd never say it aloud. 

"We have intel," Kendall started in a tone that suggested he was glad everyone had finally decided to show up, "that Sloane might be looking for more pieces to the Rambaldi puzzle." He clicked the remote to the computer set up like a slide projector to bring up a series of pictures. It was Sark, as clear as day, walking in a hotel. Sydney leaned forward in her seat. Sark wasn't sloppy; he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly where the camera was. So why did he want them to know where he was? 

Kendall obvious didn't know Sark as well as she did, and continued. "He's sent Sark to Copenhagen to see this man." He clicked the remote again. "Sjon Jenson, a lawyer at a prominent Dutch law firm. Apparently, Jenson is an avid art collector who has come in to possession of this." Another click. Up came a piece of artwork, something modern and abstract that didn't seem to fit in with Rambaldi's era. It was certainly ugly, with colors juxtaposed against each other for no reason. 

"It's ugly," Vaughn observed, snapping forward to the table with the assistance of his chair. 

"Thank you for your articulate observation, Agent Vaughn," Jack commented. Vaughn casually glanced at him, but didn't respond. 

"Actually, according to our intel the painting is hiding a page from a Rambaldi manuscript under this layer of paint,. Sark is going to make a move for it while Jenson is giving closing arguments on a major case," the director continued despite the extra comments. "Agents Bristow and Vaughn, you'll be going to Copenhagen to obtain the painting before Sark and you will also be tagging him with a passive tracking device."

"I'm sorry, but Sark isn't that stupid. If he finds out we're there, he'll get out of there," Sydney said. 

"Then you'll have to make sure he doesn't know you're there," he said to her as if it were that easy. "You leave in two hours. I suggest you prepare." 

Kendall always vacated the room quickly after the briefings concluded, to do what, no one knew. A silence hung in the room in his wake, the tension between Sydney and Vaughn almost tactile. Jack cleared his throat, the sound acting as a knife between the pair. Sydney knew they had a mission to prepare for, that there was no time for this childishness, but that didn't mean she didn't still hold some anger. 

"I suggest you two stop this and go prepare," Jack announced. 

"I can't believe you won't tell her!" Sydney suddenly exploded, swiveling in her chair to sit face to face with Vaughn. There was that heat in her mannerisms that came whenever she was angered about something, that made her argue her point of view no matter who she was arguing with. Vaughn leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. Jack stood off to the side, a silent observer. 

"She doesn't need to be burdened with it," he breathed truthfully, pulling his head up to look at her with hardened eyes. 

"Burdened? Burdened? How would this burden her?" she asked forcefully. 

"Do you understand what she went through, finding out what he did for a living? Or what happened when he died? Trust me, Syd, I'm *saving* her by keeping this from her."

"Saving her?" Sydney asked incredulously. 

"She's come to terms with the lies, the half-truths and still loves him. I'm not about to tell her that her husband messed with my head!" Vaughn's voice rose finally, and he stood, his palms flat on the table. "It's my choice, and I choose not to tell her." Giving a slight nod of acknowledgement to Jack, he walked out of the room at a brisk pace, the doors swaying a bit from the force even after he was long gone. Sydney looked to her father, her eyes almost watering. She wasn't going to loose Vaughn to this again, not after all she'd gone through - all they'd gone through - to get him back before. 

"He said her husband," she said softly. Her father nodded. 

"I know. I'll talk to him. Just get ready for the mission."

"Thanks, dad."

. . 

"Agent Vaughn!" Jack called to the man's retreating back. He paused, knowing it would just get worse if he didn't. Jack caught up with him, and walked him to a corner away from curious ears and eyes. Vaughn was literally backed into a corner with Jack blocking his way. 

"I don't know what is going on between you and my daughter, but there is no room for error on this mission and it cannot be compromised because of your immaturity," he told Vaughn. 

"Agent Bristow, I have more control over my emotions than you give me credit for," Vaughn retorted evenly. 

"I hope so, for Sydney's sake."

"Are we done?" Vaughn asked, slightly annoyed. Jack stared at him coldly, wondering what was going to happen to Vaughn as he grew older here in the agency. Would the younger agent become as cold and compartmentalized as himself, doing what had to be done no matter the emotional value? Or would Sydney somehow save him, as she had started to save Jack himself? He could never be certain, as Vaughn seemed to change all the time. There was one constant, though; the boy always seemed somewhat uncomfortable, somewhat apprehensive. Jack had yet to figure out why, though. 

"Yes, we're done," Jack said. 

Vaughn brushed past him and said: "Good."

. . 

"This," Marshall started on topic, "is the passive transmitter you've got to tag Sark with. It's thin and clear, kind of like those new nicotine patches. Have you seen the commercials for those? The people have these little clear things and they end up showing people where they are, which kind of defeats the purpose of having something that supposed to be hidden. I guess they don't think of misdirection, or they're embarrassed to have the patch but then they go on and -" 

"So I have to stick it on him?" Sydney interrupted from her perch sitting on the padded stool, on the edge of Marshall's tech-dream workstation. He nodded, but it was a blocky, awkward motion as he tried to hide his embarrassment.

"Yeah, it's kind of like a sticker. The transmitter is clear and hidden in the patch. He won't even notice it because it'll dissolve onto his skin but it will wash off, so we've got to hope he doesn't take a shower right after the mission. Do you do that? Because sometimes you're crawling in stuff and you get all icky, but you probably don't have time, or maybe you do - "

"Marshall."

"Oh, right, sorry. So, umm, here you go," he smiled, and handed her a clear plastic container with the transmitter in it. She smiled as she took it from him, which made his smile grow larger. After tucking it in her pocket, she glanced around the main JTF room before hopping off the stool and moving closer to him. 

"Have you had any luck with that thing I asked you about?" she whispered. Marshall thought for a moment, his hands clasped together awkwardly in front of him. 

"Ahh, right! Actually, I did have a bit of luck finding some specs for you, manufactures and whatnot. I can print it off for you if you'd like," he rambled. 

"If you could, that would be great. Thanks, Marshall."

. . 

The plane was 20 minutes into its flight plan before Sydney and Vaughn spoke. The table between the rows of facing seats was littered with papers from wide-open file folders, all the data on the mission contained on those pages. A few photographs lined the edges of their paper chaos, of Sark, of the hotel he was seen coming from, of the lawyer who had the painting. Why did he buy it? Was he in on the Rambaldi search, or was he someone who had an eye for odd modern art? 

The pair sat across from each other, both engrossed in their own research, as the plane cross the country on its way to Denmark. Sydney's hair fell over her face as she read over the initial intel Kendall had sent along with them, Vaughn across from her sat back in his seat, legs crossed as he casually read over another file. He closed it and let it fall in his lap as he rubbed his eyes. 

"Tired?" Sydney asked without even looking up. Vaughn's eyebrows raised, wondering how she saw him move without even looking up when he remembered she was a spy. He sighed and picked the file up again. 

"No, I'm fine," he responded with his eyes still on the papers in front of him. Sydney lifted her head so that she could look directly at him. He looked tired in the soft light the overhead lights cast on him at this late hour. A night that started with promise and fun was ending with a mission and tension. Normal people didn't have these kinds of nights. 

"Maybe you should get some sleep before we get there," she suggested. He stopped reading and looked up at her.

"I'm fine, really. You're the one who will be running around out there; I'll just be sitting in the van."

Touché, she thought. 

"What have you found out?" she asked, diverting the conversation to a safer topic. 

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Why would this man even buy this painting? It's horrible," he stated, leaning forward, his elbows sitting on some of the papers near him.

"I think the bigger question is why Sark would put himself so out in the open," Sydney asked in response. "Look at this intel; we've got pictures of him all around the hotel."

"And Sark's smart enough to know where the cameras are."

"I think it's a set-up," Sydney confessed, looking over at the photos at the edge of the papers. Across from her, she heard Vaughn shift the papers around, putting them back together and on top of the folders they belonged in. He felt it to, but didn't say anything. 

"We can't afford to loose the painting if it isn't."

"What are you thinking?" Sydney asked, sensing there was something else underneath his comment. He paused. She didn't usually ask what he was thinking, she was the one with all the answers, not him. He always asked the basic questions, the ones everyone else could figure out the answers to. Plus, he was feeling a little rusty, being asked once again to do what he had for years before she'd been assigned to him and didn't like making errors in front of those who respected him. But Sydney sat across from him, waiting for him to speak. 

"What if the painting is real and Sark is going after it for real? We know he can't contact us through regular channels, so what better way to set up a meeting than to bate us?"

"But why would he want to meet?"

"A distraction?" Vaughn answered. "An exchange of information? Or, the simplest explanation could be he wants a challenge."

"A challenge?"

Vaughn smiled and leaned on his arms. "What fun would it be if the great Sydney Bristow wasn't there to thwart his plans?"

Sydney grinned, but she didn't completely believe Vaughn's reasoning. Sark wouldn't sacrifice a mission just to see her, she knew that much. But he had, in the past, asked her to come work with him. He wouldn't do that now, would he, knowing how much she hated his boss? So what did he really want? 

Or was he really getting sloppy? 

She pushed that thought out of her mind, it was really silly to think that of her adviserey. Whatever Sark's reasoning was, they would still need to formulate a plan in order to obtain the painting. The intel confirmed that the painting was a valuable asset, which warranted the mission (and also meant there was no room for failure). She yawned. 

"Go to sleep," Vaughn ordered her, having picked up a different file, this one filled with floor plans for Jenson's law office and his personal office where he had hung the painting. He seemed intent on reading and re-reading the information, analyzing it as always to make sure the plan was foolproof, having learned from his mistakes. Sydney thought it was sweet, but always worried about him at the same time. With his mind always focused on her, on the mission at hand, when did he have time to think about his own needs? 

"Fine," she replied lightly, pushing her hair behind her ears. She stood, stretched, and scooted out from behind the table. She expected Vaughn to follow her with his deep green eyes, but they didn't move from the papers in front of him, his mind clearly on something completely different. She considered calling him on it, but after the night's previous words, she reconsidered and settled for a light brush of her hand against his shoulder. A hand absentmindedly came up to hold hers, then moved down to turn the page. 

Vaughn felt her leave the main cabin for the bathroom to change. The nicest thing about these planes was the size; of the bathroom, of the seats, of the cabin. And they were quiet, empty, serene. The papers in front of him had long since shifted out of focus into a blur of black spots against white, moved around simply to keep his hands busy as his mind wandered. He'd have to call his mother when they returned to smooth things over, to make sure everything was okay - he couldn't loose her! But he wouldn't tell her, he'd spare her the feelings he'd felt after finding out what had been done. 

He slammed the file closed and leaned his head back, his eyes closed. Did Sydney realize how crazy it made him when she shared those hushed conversations with her father? Or called him dad in front of him? Sure, it was crazy, and lots of people had fathers, but he wished, oh, he wished so much that he could have that relationship, that she?? could be around him all the time. 

At first it didn't bother him, but after his father's killer was found, after she was there, it got worse. He always thought apprehending his father's killer would relieve this huge pressure on his shoulders, but it didn't. He just felt - empty, and that constant reminder of what he didn't have filled it in. Okay, Michael, calm down, you're just being irrational and projecting. 

The door to the bathroom snapped open. Vaughn leaned up and reopened the file, wanting to make sure he had everything covered. Sydney settled into a reclined seat a few rows behind him, shifting back and forth a few times before finding a comfortable position. For a full minute, Vaughn sat at the table looking over things, but soon found himself lying next to her in the dark, aching for her comfort but never vocalizing the need.   



	5. Belie Part B

**Chapter 2: Belie**  
_Part B_

**Copenhagen**

"The office building is basically straight forward," Vaughn had explained earlier that morning. "Twenty-seven floors, the law offices are on the 17th. There's access from the elevator and the set of stairs across from the elevator shaft, as well as a loading elevator across the floor, on the eastern side." 

It sounded straight forward when on paper, Sydney mused, standing in the main stairwell. The camera took another sweep of the area, then stopped, mid-motion as a voice buzzed in her ear: "All clear."

What would a mission be without those guardians sitting out in the van, their fingers clicking endlessly on keys, safeguarding her life from afar with technology and misdirection? She smiled up at the camera, knowing Vaughn would see her. He did. His soft laughter reached her even as she opened the door to the 17th floor. 

"Once on the 17th floor, you'll have to find your way to Jenson's office, which is in the back of the larger office. That's where it gets harder," he'd continued. That morning, the sun highlighted his almost auburn hair. "No doubt everyone knows everyone else in the office, which means you're going to have to get in and out fast without many questions asked."

Sydney brushed imaginary wrinkles out of the skirt of her sharp designer suit and checked her hair in the doors to the elevator. Perfect, as always. Head held up high, she pushed open one of the glass doors to the law offices and approached the front desk. There was a young, pretty woman sitting behind the tall, curved desk showing off the newest of European design, a headset on as she fielded and filtered incoming calls. As Sydney approached, she looked up and smiled cordially. 

"Good afternoon. How can I help you?" she asked promptly. Sydney held the briefcase at her side tightly, hoping everything would work out fine, as always. 

"I have an appointment with Mr. Jenson."

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Jenson is not here at the moment. Are you sure you have an appointment?"

It was time for Sydney to take her acting up a notch, and she brought a hand up to the side of her face, which showed an expression close to surprise. She looked up to the clock in the corner, noting the time. Sark was sure to show up soon, unless he'd already acted. But this was the only time window! 

"I must have set my watch wrong!" she exclaimed in English. "You know how it is, when you get off an airplane, sometimes you just set the new time an hour off or so!" The woman smiled, a large, fake smile. She'd heard all this before, from countless professionals. How could they be so successful and make these kinds of mistakes? 

"It's alright, ma'am," she responded in accented English, her eyes drifting down to the phone on her desk. Lights were blinking madly, reminding her of her other receptionist responsibilities. Sydney rubbed her forehead, keeping up with the charade. 

"Do you think it would be possible for me to use the washroom?" she asked suddenly. The receptionist nodded distractedly, pointing at some place behind her as she clicked to answer an incoming call. Her greeting was lost on Sydney as she headed towards the washroom. 

"Jenson's office is in the rear - he's a partner, so it shouldn't be hard to find it," Vaughn's words came back to her now. "They're rather larger and somewhat obtrusive."

"You sound like you've seen one up close," she'd retorted. 

"Summer internship. Hated it."

A smile spread across her face as she remembered their breakfast and its accompanying banter. It always came like that, the information about Vaughn and his past, in short blurbs here and there sprinkled throughout their mission/counter-mission discussions. A summer internship in a law office meant he must have been in law school, or at least pre-law. And had disliked it, which surprised her, since he always seemed to go by the book and follow the rules. So what did he major in? She made a mental note to ask him about that when she returned. 

The office was somewhat lighter than she would have surmised, concluding most were in court or deliberations behind heavy conference room doors. Her eyes scanned the nameplates, noting her location as she passed the bathrooms, searching for Jenson's office. She found it halfway down the back hallway, away from the noise and congestion of the main office space. White walls greeted her as she looked back and forth before opening the door to the office. Once inside, she clicked it closed. 

"Now, you'll be carrying this briefcase, but it's a special one for a special lady," Marshall explained. "Have you ever seen that movie the Thomas Crowne Affair? It's a great movie, well, smart and full of - "

"Marshall."

"Right. Anyway, you take the painting off the wall, like this," and he'd mimed taking the painting off the wall. "And put it in the briefcase. The painting will be fine, but you'll, umm, snap the frame" The rest of his speech slipped her mind as she heard the click of a gun hammer being pulled and the shift of someone moving. 

"Ahh, Miss Bristow, a little late, but that's fine." Sark was sitting on Jenson's black leather couch to her left, his gun raised and pointed at her. Her earpiece crackled to life. 

"Be careful, Syd," Vaughn's voice came through clear. Leave it to him to say something like that instead of advice on how to get out of this situation (as Dixon most certainly would have). But what else could he say? They knew from the moment they got on the plane late last night he would be here - and had included it in their plan from the beginning. As she'd walked down the hallway, she'd taken the transmitter Marshall had given her during op tech from its case and put it on her finger. A simple touch and it would be on him. Sark must have noticed her gaze shift and smirked. 

"Is that Agent Vaughn? I'm sure he's sitting outside in a van somewhere while you're up here," Sark commented, standing. The gun never wavered from its aim on her, even as he walked towards her. "'Take out your earpiece."

"What?" 

"Take it out, Agent Bristow," he repeated. She hesitated yet obliged, holding it out to him in the palm of her hand. He took it and dropped it to the ground before smashing it. She could just imagine Vaughn sitting out there, throwing the headphones down on the desk before him, ears ringing from the momentary burst of sound. Of course, he'd start worrying then, his eyes glued to the monitors before him, scanning for any sign of her safe exit. 

"Now we can talk freely," he smiled at her. 

"I don't talk very freely when there's a gun pointed at my head," Sydney quipped. 

"Understandable, Agent Bristow, but you must understand my position. If I lower my gun, what's to keep you from attacking me?" 

She considered this for a moment. "Why did you want to see me?" she asked. 

"It's been awhile, don't you think?" he retorted. She snorted, eyeing the painting just over his shoulder, above the couch. He followed her gaze. 

You haven't taken the painting yet," she observed, trying to piece this all together in her mind. He laughed at her, and relaxed his gun-holding hand just a bit, enough to show his amusement with the situation. Sydney knew he had control of it all, and had grabbed control as soon as those pictures from his hotel had ended up in Kendall's hands. But why? There were other, easier ways of getting her attention, or meeting up with her. So why now, with this painting, in this office? What had they missed?

"Are you so sure about that? Who says I didn't already switch it with a fake?" he raised. 

Sydney swept the room with her eyes, taking in the hugely overpriced European furniture, the lack of personality yet bragging that went on inside here, showing those who entered how successful he was. There was nowhere for Sark to hide the real painting, and she didn't see a single fleck of dust out of place. He hadn't switched them, not yet. He was waiting for her. Her previous conclusion ran through her head, but Vaughn's simple statement came back to haunt her. There was no room for error, and they couldn't afford to loose it even if it were a fake. 

It certainly was ugly. 

Sark tucked his gun away and stood casually across from her. "I didn't, not yet. And, judging by how long Mr. Jenson's cases usually go, I'd say we have about 20 minutes before he returns."

"What do you want?" Sydney grumbled, crossing her arms. She moved a finger on her right hand, her eyes on Sark to see if he noticed. He didn't, and she inched closer and closer to her gun concealed on her left hip.

"Your mother was curious as to how you're doing, a motherly concern I don't much approve of. Yet here I am, checking up on you for her," he stated, rolling his bright blue eyes as he concluded his mini-explanation. Sydney raised her eyebrows, almost laughing. Her mother had sent him to check up on her in the middle of a mission? Was she trying to get her only daughter killed? Probably, Sydney thought, her fingers finally encircling the handle to her gun. She moved a bit for a tighter grip, then waited. Timing was everything in this game. 

"You can tell her I'm fine," she said simply, angry. 

"She also asked me to remind you that you will see what she is truly up to in time," he continued despite her response. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a painting to steal." 

Sydney chose that movement to uncross her arms, her gun securely in her right hand. She held it out, pointing it at him. He paused mid-movement, cursing his own stupidity in his mind. She had the upper hand now, and she wasn't about to give it back to him. They stood in a standoff until the phone rang on the desk. Taking advantage of the silence being broken, Sark kicked up, his leg rounding in an arch to knock the gun from her hands. It clattered to the floor after bouncing off the front side of the desk. He came up to punch, but was blocked as she kicked out and hit him in the knee. As she blocked, the transmitter moved on to the back of his hand, adhering to it as it was supposed to. He went down, giving her a window to grab the gun, but he pulled her leg and she ended up diving for it, somersaulting to grab the gun. She ended up leaning against the desk, holding her gun with both hands pointed at Sark, who was down on one knee. The phone rang again, then clicked into voicemail. 

"Don't make me shoot you," she breathed. He smirked. 

"Your mother wouldn't be very happy with you if you did that."

"Like I care," she said, standing by using the desk to help her up. Why did she always end up fighting in high heels? With the gun still pointed at him, she crossed to the couch and grabbed the painting with one hand. Sark found his footing and stood, but didn't move. 

The phone rang again. This time, it clicked onto speaker. 

"Are you there yet? If you aren't, grab the background information as well, we might need it in here," the person said promptly. Sydney and Sark looked to each other, knowing their timetable had just shortened considerably. It was as if they came to some kind of silent agreement, knowing the first priority was to get the painting out of there before they both were found. He moved and grabbed her discarded briefcase and threw it over to her. She caught it and promptly opened it, wincing slightly as she closed the painting inside, the wooden frame splintering inside. She looked up at the wall quickly, noticing how the paint wasn't even discolored, the painting was truly a new acquisition. But there was something on the wall behind where it had been, something small and - 

"There's no time! We have to get out of here!" Sark cried, beckoning her to get out of there. She whirled around and straightened her suit before leaving the office, a smile on her face as Sark walked slightly in front of her. A few people gave them a second glance, but not enough for them to say something. As she passed the receptionist, she muttered a thank you, and made a note to her that she would come back later, when the real appointment was to take place. 

Then she was out the door. 

Sark stood in front of her expectantly, the elevator's down call button glowing. She stood across from him, wondering how she was going to get out of the building with the painting still in her possession. 

"You're going to give me that painting, Agent Bristow," he commented nonchalantly, the elevator ringing, announcing its arrival. They stood across from each other once again as the doors opened and - 

"Hi there." 

It was Vaughn, standing in the elevator with his gun drawn and pointed at Sark. He glanced over at Sydney, motioning for her to join him. This was one of the times she was reminded that he had, at one time, been in the field and not stuck behind that desk in his moderately sized office. Of course, most action heroes didn't arrive in disheveled outfits from the day before, the wrinkles large and apparent. 

Sydney joined him in the elevator; standing at his side as the doors slid close, Sark's surprised expression was the last thing she saw before they were alone. She let out a breath she'd been holding in, her posture slouching as she relaxed. Vaughn looked over to her as he slid his gun back into its holster. She couldn't read his expression, but she had no time to dwell on that as he jumped up to open the escape hatch on the elevator's ceiling. 

"He's running down the stairs as we speak, Syd. We've got to get behind him," he said, holding out his hands to give her a boost. She nodded, pushing emotion from her mind as she jumped up through it. Once atop, he jumped up and grabbed the edges, managing to pull himself up next to her. The door was slammed close just as the elevator came to a stop on a lower floor. They took advantage of the long stop to manually open the doors to the floor above it and hop through before the elevator started descending again. Thankfully, that floor's lobby was deserted. 

They stood there, Sydney with her hand on Vaughn's arm, breathing heavily. He turned to her and planted a kiss on her forehead. 

"Don't do that again," he told her. She frowned and he smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know what was happening. Don't do that again."  



	6. Antebellum Part A

**Title**: Chronic Vertigo  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
**Author's Note**: Well, I said December first and meant it. Updates every Monday and Thursday. 

**Chapter Three: Antebellum **  
Part A

Arvin Sloane sat at a gray, metal table in a molded plastic chair, mentally swearing at the poor lighting. The converted storage room was a poor substitute for his old SD-6 office even if it was a bit warmer and quieter. He'd never liked the glass walls to his old office, despite the fact that it allowed him to watch over his employees. They were so busy; so distracting as they ran from place to place, believing they were doing the work of a patriot. When in reality they were sheep, mere tools in his quest for Rambaldi's ultimate work; the ultimate prize. They were all tossed away like outgrown toys when he no longer needed them. Except for the Bristows. 

Part of him was happy for that – they had no idea what a pivotal part of this whole quest they were! Having worthy adversaries made this quest so much sweeter; so much more worth the end prize. 

His aged eyes scanned the document through scratched lenses, reading what they could of Rambaldi's hurried writing. Another piece of the puzzle he was striving so hard to complete; yet this page simply helped to paint the image on the cover of the puzzle's box and while to some it would have a somewhat lesser value, Sloane regarded it as a great treasure. Anything related to Rambaldi was, at least to him. And while some had called him crazy, he was no more insane than those who collected stamps, or spoons. 

It was during the third time he was reading it over that he heard others enter the room. They came over to stand over his left shoulder but did not say a word, remaining silent until his fourth read-through was finished and he leaned back in his chair. The glasses he'd been wearing he tossed somewhat haphazardly to the side of the page, one of the earpieces sitting on its edge. 

Is it what you expected? Irina Derevko spoke softly; her words, as always, carefully chosen. 

It is what it is, he responded cryptically. Was our message received?

A voice spoke from the shadows of the doorway. It was.

Sark remained in the shadows, beyond their field of vision though he shifted to let them know he was still there. It had only been a few hours since he'd left Sydney, his knee still aching from where she kicked it. The shadows allowed him to lean against the wall a bit, just enough to elevate the pressure on it long enough for it to heal a little. He was afraid she might have dislodged something, but that would all have to be figured out later when he had time. At the moment, his priority was finding out exactly what he had retrieved. 

Sloane sat before it and his answer before, to Irina's inquiry, gave no real indication of what the parchment had upon it. Other than words, of course. He'd washed off the ugly collection of brush strokes and handed it off right away, not able to examine it himself. Hopefully, Sloane would ask him to place it in storage soon so he would have the opportunity to look it over himself. Irina gave him a sharp look, as if asking why he wouldn't move from his now-comfortable perch. He didn't give her a response. 

Do you really think Sydney will listen to you this time? That you can really dissuade her from chasing you? Irina asked of him, moving around him to stand so she could face him. He could lie to her from behind, but his eyes would always give him away no matter how much training he'd had or how hard he tried. 

No. Sydney's too good for that. She will continue to come, he sighed. Sloane's hand moved out to push the glasses from the edge of his parchment, passing over the old paper in the process as he made sure nothing had happened to it. I wish there were something I could do.

Short of killing them all, I don't believe there is, Sark spoke up, shifting his weight again. He winced as weight was again placed on his knee, but relaxed as he found another position. Damn it. He was going to have to ice it when this impromptu meeting was concluded, barring being sent off on another mission. He was really getting sick of this dance he was locked into. But he continued reminding himself that everything was worth this wait, this placement. Alliances were being made, experience, knowledge. The game was all these things and more. 

There might be, Irina spoke, shifting to sit halfway on the large table. Sloane gave a dark look as he moved the precious parchment out of her way, wishing she had thought about it before moving. 

Might be? Sloane's eyes lit up. The extent of Irina's knowledge was still beyond him, even after all this time, and whenever she gave him another piece of it, good things were bound to happen. But the look in her eyes was far away as if she were angry with herself for saying something. Why would she be? Why *should* she be? Irina pushed herself off of the table and crossed her arms as she pulled the information forward. 

There was a file compiled; a code that would give you info on the CIA and their operations, she started to explain. Sloane put a hand up to stop her. 

I heard of this, but I also heard it was, he paused, 

she asked. He nodded. 

This computer has surfaced, Irina smiled. Sark chose this moment to come from his place in the shadows, limping ever so slightly as he made his way to Irina's side. She had plans, this he knew, deep, old, complicated plans that would boggle the mind with their complexity, their cunning. He had seen some in action, events played out exactly as she had told them they would with such accuracy, such precision he was amazed. Which is why he had agreed to work with her, under her direction. So what was she up to now? 

We don't have time to chase this computer, Irina, Sloane countered. 

I think it might be worth the time, Mr. Sloane, Sark tested, speaking somewhat slowly. Sloane acknowledged him finally as a member of the conversation and gave him a look, measuring him up. He never could know how much of Irina's plans the young man knew, something that frightened Sloane sometimes. Was Sark being honest with him, or playing him in order to advance himself with Irina? Doesn't matter, Sloane told himself. He had fail-safes in place, having learned from his last mistake in the realm of trust.

Why do you say that? Sloane asked of him. Irina moved in to answer for him. 

Because the information on this computer may be powerful enough to put the CIA in your debt, she told him. His eyebrows raised. 

In my debt, Sloane pondered, scratching the side of his face absentmindedly. Meaning I could, say – 

Continue and conclude your quest for Rembaldi without the constant meddling of the CIA, Sark finished for him. The prospect was promising, an inanimate object that granted the possessor the ability to put the CIA in its place. Every criminal in the world would love and would kill to get their hands on it. But the problem with this computer was the anonymity surrounding it. Everyone had heard of it somehow through the network of crime, but most had dismissed it with the wave of a hand, knowing they would be killed before they got near it. Sloane frowned, doubts coming to his mind. There had to be a catch, he knew it, and he knew Irina knew as well. So why wasn't she telling him? 

He sighed. Once again, he'd have to get all the information for himself. 

Where has it surfaced? he asked of her. At least she could provide him that, a starting point from which he could follow its trail. With the latest Rembaldi artifact recovered as only more background, Sloane found himself with a bit of downtime before finding the next piece of for his quest. What better to do during this time than find something that would, in the future, help him to assemble this puzzle faster? 

she responded, wrapping the word in her accent. I have a contact there who might be able to set up a meeting. Sloane appeared to consider this for a moment before picking up his glasses from the table. 

Set it up, he directed, returning his attention to the page on the table. Sark looked up at Irina, who motioned for him to follow her out of the room. Once outside the office, with the door securely closed behind them, he turned to her, curious. 

What are you up to? he asked of her. 

You'll see. What's wrong with your knee? A master of misdirection, that, Irina bringing his attention back to where it had been most of the discussion. He smirked. 

Nothing. Just a bit of a greeting from Sydney, he replied. At this, Irina's expression softened, an arm reaching out to be placed on Sark's shoulder. 

How is she? the mother demanded of him, her eyes full of worry. She was always worried about her daughter, about her well being. When she was in custody it was easy to find all this out, but ever since she'd been extracted, Irina found it harder and harder to keep up with her. 

Fine. But I don't believe she is going to wait for you much longer, he sighed, shifting. The hand fell. 

If this all occurs as I believe it will; no amount of time will help me.

So her trust is unimportant to you now?

Never. But I will not force her.

Forcing her will not work, unless – 

Irina held up a hand to stop him, knowing exactly where he was going. But she was already there, in a place she never thought she'd be. She was going after Sydney's weakness, the one and only one she possessed. She'd never intended for that to happen, never intended for it to happen this way. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Irina wasn't sure she was thinking about Sydney anymore. 


	7. Antebellum Part B

**Title**: Chronic Vertigo  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  


**Chapter Three: Antebellum **  
Part B

This had to have been his seventh cup of coffee since coming in at 7 that morning. A glance at his watch confirmed what he'd been calculating – that it was only 11 and 7 cups of coffee in three hours couldn't be a good thing. What was even worse was the fact that he still was tired and despite all the caffeine in his system, was sure he would fall asleep in a second if given the opportunity. Now, should he consider a complete lack of work a break that could be used for, say, a nap? Because he suddenly found himself in a vacant office in the back of the JTF, his shoes kicked off his feet as he lay on an old salmon couch that had certainly seen better days. 

For once, he was glad his hair always seemed to appear disheveled, because it was most likely going to look that way when he finally got up. He hugged an end pillow tighter as he shifted his head to find a more comfortable position for his neck. After a few seconds however, he gave up. There was no way his head would be comfortable on a couch almost half his size (causing him to curl his legs under himself). 

Contrary to popular belief, he hadn't started out spending every night at Sydney's place. In fact, the pair had often found themselves working until different nighttime hours, which, in turn, caused them to go home alone, not wishing to wake the other up. But after a week of this separation, Vaughn had resigned himself to sleeping on Sydney's couch when he arrived after her. A week later, she'd caught on and told him a continuation of this behavior would be completely unacceptable. She had went on to say he needed his sleep just as much as she did, and if he didn't want to come into her bed, he could at least make it to his.

He'd nodded with a small smile on his face, keeping his thought to himself. He couldn't tell her he could no longer sleep when at home all alone, that despite what Barnett had said, he might loose it again.

It was nothing wrong,' Barnett had said. In fact, I'm surprised it didn't happen earlier. You were holding it all inside, things you shouldn't have. You became an emotional bomb just waiting to go off.' At his sour expression, she'd leaned forward, closer to him. There's nothing wrong with you, nothing.'

And that was that. 

  
He believed her, he *knew* nothing was wrong with him. In fact, he often examined what had happened and wondered what he was on (a lot of cold medicine, that was for sure). It didn't even bother him anymore. So why was he laying on this old couch trying to catch a bit of sleep instead of being fully rested from a night's sleep at home? It was because – 

What, you *don't* keep your teddy bear in your desk? Weiss' voice rang out next to him. Vaughn groaned, wishing he had been granted the obligatory 5 more minutes, and cracked open his eyes. 

Weiss' face floated before him, a goofy grin upon his face. Vaughn recoiled, then threw the pillow he'd been holding captive in a tight stranglehold at his best friend's face. It hit him dead-on, forcing an oof from Weiss before he promptly returned the favor. Vaughn, who had been in the process of sitting up was spared, and he simply rubbed his eyes, the pillow on the floor to the right of the couch just beside him. He straightened his tie as Weiss spoke. 

Weiss huffed, pulling himself from the floor, is the ugliest couch I have ever seen before. He landed on the couch with a grunt, leaning back into the cushions. His head banged against the closed blinds, causing him to sit up quickly. He ran a hand over the armrest, curious. Where did it come from?

Its just one of those things, Vaughn replied, yawning. 11:04. He'd slept for 24 minutes, four minutes since he checked his watch, 20 since he'd snuck away to experience that semi-sleep which kept him on the edge of consciousness. Wait, how come I didn't hear you come in? he asked suddenly. He'd heard people talking down the hall, but not Weiss' entrance? 

And you call yourself a field agent.

Vaughn defended himself. Weiss laughed. 

Yeah, yeah. Why? You were *sleeping*. During the *day*. In the middle of a CIA/FBI Joint Task Force!

Aren't you the one who wrote the book on sleeping at the workplace? Vaughn countered.

Yes, Mike, but that's when I have an office door and faithful assistant, he stated as-matter-of-factly. He shook his head and chuckled at Vaughn's apparent slacking naïveté. It was expected though. His friend, at least until recently, always stuck to the rules. He had probably been a bore in school, making sure he never got in trouble, never doing anything out of line. The complete opposite of himself.

You just haven't figured out how to here, yet, shrugged Vaughn as he reached out with his feet for his shoes. They were simply a few inches to far, but he continued to try. Weiss watched his futile attempts, completely amused. 

Why don't you just grow out your legs there, buddy, he directed. Vaughn glared before he stood and retrieved them himself. He bent down to slip them back on. 

Are you here for any particular reason? Vaughn inquired, still leaning forward as he retied his shoes. 

What, it's odd for me to come talk to you? Weiss asked him. Or have you become too good for us desk jockeys? 

I'll take that as a yes. So why *were* you sleeping?

I usually do, Vaughn said, sitting back up. He ran a hand through his hair as he sat at the edge of the couch, forcing his sluggish body to move. His neck ached, and he spoke as he rubbed it. When I'm tired.

Oh? Busy night? he asked, inflicting his voice just right so the underlying meaning was fully understood. 

In a manner of speaking, Vaughn muttered more to himself than in response to Weiss' dive into the gutter. Don't start, he said louder, running his hand back around his neck and letting it fall to his lap. I didn't torment you when you had a girlfriend and I didn't. 

What, the two weeks between Fiona and – what's her name? 

Vaughn groaned and let his head audibly hit the glass and blinds behind him. 

Right, Jessica. And you did, Mike. You were a sad little lost abandoned man who couldn't get over a girl. Was that your longest time between girl – 

Vaughn retrieved the pillow and threw it at Weiss before he could even finish that statement. To his credit Weiss was silent for a second before he peeled it off his face and started laughing. The laughter was contagious and Vaughn found himself letting go as well. This was how life was supposed to be, full of moments such as these that were not overshadowed by secrets and lies, or life and death situations. 

How long did it take you to figure out I was gone? Vaughn asked, breaking free of the humor. Weiss shrugged. 

I didn't really. I was a little distracted – 

Vaughn interrupted. As in Agent Phillips.

Weiss countered seriously, turning to face Vaughn. The latter sat up, intrigued and awaiting the answer. There's this new girl in IT. Beautiful, tall, smart, a little mousy. Well, I think she's in to me. That was Weiss – always on the prowl for a new girlfriend. 

So why'd you come looking for me?

Good question. You might be just as pretty as the girl – He stopped as Vaughn made a move for another pillow. Whoa, whoa, no need to get mad. If I were you, I'd be happy for my good looks. At his friend's glare, he sobered up. Okay, okay. Briefing. The transmitter's gone active.

Vaughn said, his jaw clenched as he pushed his growing anger down. How long ago were you told this? 

Weiss innocently pulled his arm up and looked at his watch. 10 minutes ago, he stated. 

Vaughn jumped up and headed for the door, wondering how dead he'd be after Jack and Kendall were done with him and if he would be alive enough to murder or seriously injure Weiss afterwards. As he reached the door Weiss called his name, and he turned, a hand resting on the cold black doorframe. 

You're getting really good at dodging questions, Weiss said sincerely. but I'm on to you. Vaughn pondered this as Weiss stood and came to slap him on the back. Plus, why are you leaving without me? Don't you love me anymore?

I have a girlfriend, you know, Vaughn revealed as the pair headed towards the conference room at the other side of the floor. Weiss snapped his fingers. 

Right. Well, maybe that girl in IT will go for me.

Vaughn replied, but he was already off somewhere else, thinking of other things. Was Weiss right? Was he actually avoiding questions? It was a subconscious action, to be sure, something he did because he was *thinking* that he didn't want to say anything. But people were usually able to extract information from him no matter how hard he tried. Or could they? Was he digressing, his avoidance becoming easier to recognize instead of harder? 

The doors to the conference room were closed, and he could hear someone droning on inside. He sighed. They were so dead.  



	8. Antebellum Part C

**Title**: Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter**: Chapter Three, Part C  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  


**Chapter Three: Antebellum **  
Part B

_Bogotá, Columbia_

The heat was suffocating. As a man who had traveled the world over on more than a few occasions, Arvin Sloane found himself in a tropical location he didn't agree with him. Partly attributed to the fact that he always wore a suit (no matter where he was going), the heat seemed to overwhelm him, and he hoped for an air-conditioned room as soon as possible. The driver, a middle aged Spanish woman who Sloane assumed was the contact's wife, told him it would only be a few minutes before they arrived and left it at that. At least she had a nice car, a bi-product of the contact's successful import business. 

Joseph Mitchell, age 51, last known location Bogotá, Columbia. Irina had been most forthcoming with the information as soon as he requested the meeting, and even volunteered to send Sark along with him for protection. But Sloane's experience with hiding contacts had taught him that bringing someone with on the first round wasn't the best idea. If he showed Mitchell his trust, that feeling might be reciprocated. Business always went smoother when there was the understanding that each was there to do their job and do it without betrayal. 

So, Sloane had directed that Sark was to come and join him for transport of the item at his signal and not a moment before. The boy had agreed before walking off to ice his knee. Sloane smiled at that – he had taught Sydney well, and despite her new (or old?) allegiances he still tracked her movements, analyzed her missions. Still as strong as ever, with or without Dixon. 

The car turned down a dusty road. At the end he could see a large home, in the classic Spanish style of white, large, and red clay. Mitchell had done himself well, with a few armed guards walking around at the edge of the expansive grounds. With that many men, why send his wife out to retrieve him instead of an employee? The woman swooped into the large circular drive, stopping in front of the stairs. A man, Mitchell, was standing there in a black suit, crisp and pressed just like Sloane's own. He smiled. A man like himself would be easier to negotiate with. 

As soon as the car stopped, he stepped out and pulled down on his lapels to straighten his coat. Mitchell descended the stairs and held out his hand as part of the introduction rite known the world over. 

Mr. Sloane, I presume, he spoke, his words even and precise. He seemed cold, detached, calculating, just like Irina, a good reason for them to be in connection with each other. The wife had, by now, turned off the car and come up to her husband's side, slipping an arm through his. 

He's clean, she stated. Understanding dawned on Sloane as she smiled up at the older man. She'd checked him for Mitchell. Who would question her about her husband's business? It must have been in the car; that was why she kept looking at something on the other side of the steering column. They must have put something in the passenger seat, and ingenious invention to be sure. Or she'd checked him at the airport. The mere idea that he couldn't pinpoint where she had scanned him unsettled him a bit, but he clasped Mitchell's hand firmly and shook. 

Mr. Mitchell, you have a beautiful home.

Thank you. It is much better than my last home. Why don't we go inside? It's a little warm out here, Mitchell smiled. He turned, wife still on his arm, and lead Sloane inside. 

The interior was even more impressive than the exterior, even as it was juxtaposed against the Spanish outside. Mitchell seemed to be a fan of Italian vineyards, with beautiful paintings and furniture that must have cost a fortune to import. Sloane eyed antiques as they passed a large mirror in the main hall, but was allowed only glimpses of the home as he was led through a pair of thick mahogany doors into Mitchell's office. This was where his wife departed, leaving them to their business. 

He stepped down into a thickly carpeted room walled with bookcases filled with old books and treasures collected over the years. Mitchell rounded the large old-style desk as Sloane walked around the room, examining the small knickknacks and such he could see. The man certainly had good taste and a love for Italy, but nothing connected him to Rambaldi. What a shame, Sloane thought. 

Why don't you take a seat? the man offered, motioning to one of the wingback chairs facing the desk. Sloane smiled and took a seat, his eyes looking at everything, taking in the surroundings as well as Mitchell. Now, why don't we get down to business. I haven't spoken to Irina in years and I get this call out of the blue.

We're interested in a computer that contains specific information, information on an encryption code once used by the CIA, Sloan said slowly. Mitchell nodded, leaning back in his seat. 

I was wondering when someone was going to come asking.

What can you tell me about it? Sloane asked. Irina hadn't been that forthcoming with details. 

There were 11 agents searching for it, Mitchell recalled. We were never told what was on it, only that it was a matter of utmost national security that we get it back. We didn't ask any questions, just went on with our search.

Wait, you were one of those agents? 

I was. Of course, if you looked up my name in any of those CIA computers, I would be marked as dead at the hands of Irina Derevko, a star on a wall with other stars who weren't smart enough to get out in time. There is no way to win this game, Mr. Sloane, it kills all its players, sooner or later. All one can do is lie low when the means for escape presents itself and stay that way for as long as possible. Mitchell leaned forward and grabbed a cigar from the humidor on the desk, holding it out before him as to offer Sloane one. He took it as the man pulled out another, lighting it with the lighter provided. 

From Cuba, the best. Although I do prefer the Davidoff's myself, Mitchell told Sloane. A man who knew his cigars was a man to be respected. And with the quality of the one he was smoking at the moment, a rich man. You've come and pulled me back into this game, Mr. Sloane. And I wonder why, after all these years, I've been called back in.

We can't keep away, Sloane said, a hint of humor making its way to his eyes. He saw the humor in the situation, in what the man across from him was saying. Leaving the CIA was one of the best decisions he had ever made, and from what he had observed of Mitchell's lifestyle, it was the other man's as well. For this reason, Sloane felt a kind of kinship to this man, a relationship he felt bolstered the degree of trust in these proceedings. 

You speak the truth. The game is always there, always calling. This Great Game, he laughed. I should have expected your call.

Why do you say that? Sloane inquired, his eyes narrowing a bit. 

No reason. You do know the conditions of this, do you not? Mitchell brushed off Sloane's shift in temperament, not wanting to deal with it. He was never a man of much emotion past his contentment with life as he knew it now, and was known to disregard the emotions of others. The truth was, he never really saw the point in him wasting time caring about what other people where thinking. Confrontation between those you were supposed to be allied with was the worst; he'd seen himself the disasters that resulted. So Sloane, sitting across from him and reconsidering the deal didn't bother him one bit. In a few hours, Sloane would be gone and Mitchell would be out next to the pool with his beautiful wife, enjoying the sun and the afternoon. 

I do not have the computer here, on the property, Mitchell started, leaning forward. His hands formed a steeple in front of his mouth as he leaned on his thumbs. The small show of surprise on Sloane's face revealed he had not been told. Also, it requires a disk of some kind in order to boot.

Information is sketchy on that account; there were only four agents who knew about it, and all of them are dead. I've been looking for this disk for years, Mitchell had continued, standing and walking to the large windows overlooking his wife's garden. My own personal quest, but have come up empty handed.

Sloane sat, dumbfounded almost. What was he here for, if he didn't have the means to access the information? And speaking of that, he didn't even have the computer! He cursed in his head – what was Irina playing at? And did she have the means to acquire the disk herself, leaving until later to tell him where it was? But it was a prize to valuable to abandon. Sacrifices had to be made if he were going to achieve his goal, and sitting in this ex-CIA man's home in Columbia was a small one in the larger scheme of things.

Is it possible the disk has been destroyed? he tested, shifting in his chair to face Mitchell. He turned, cigar still in hand, the smoke spiraling up into nothingness. 

I don't believe so.

And what makes you think that?

Faith, Mr. Sloane. There are things put in motion that must be completed, that will be completed no matter what happens, he responded. This is one of those things, one of the large chips in the game of life. You must understand – men died for this. It is no trivial thing.

I understand that, Sloane said. Which is why I'm here. I'd like to buy this computer from you.

Of course, Mitchell smiled. But first, lunch?

That would be nice. May I call my associate first? Sloane asked, standing. This was going easier than he originally thought, and the more he heard, the wetter his appetite became for the answer to this new riddle. A chaise worthy of his downtime. 

. . 

How long will it take you to get here?

Sark's voice came back at him through the phone: 8 hours. I can be on a plane in an hour.

Good. Oh, and Mr. Mitchell wanted to ask Irina something. He wanted to know if everything was going as planned. Do you know anything about that?

No, sir, I don't.

All right. I'll see you in 8 hours.

The phone clicked off as Sark disconnected. Sloane frowned. Something was going on behind his back. He hated being used as a pawn in his own game. Across from him, Mitchell ate hungrily. Sloane did the same.   



	9. Ipse Dixit Part A

**Title**: Chronic Vertigo  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

**Chapter Four\\** Ipse Dixit   
Part A

_"I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act."  
G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936)_

  
"The transmitter went active twenty minutes ago," Jack said, giving Weiss and Vaughn only a small glare as they snuck in the back of the conference room and took seats like guilty late college students. They looked around guiltily, Vaughn smoothing out his tie subconsciously. His eyes locked with Sydney's and stayed there as she tried to see what was going on with him. He broke contact after a moment, the feeling of someone trying to read into him making him uncomfortable. She crossed her arms and turned to her father, leaving Vaughn to look up at the older agent himself.   
  
"We can assume we only have a few hours before the device becomes unreliable," he continued. Marshall shifted in his seat and moved his hand as if he were about to say something in his creation's defense, but a sharp look from Jack silenced him before he even spoke. True, the device was good, but the tech didn't have the infield experience to know the errors that occurred in the field. Things happened out there that could alter the tracker's performance - movement, action, a variety of things. A few reliable hours was a high estimate, but a realistically optimistic one.   
  
"Currently, Sark is here." The button for the computer was clicked again, the whir of the computer behind the images filling the stark silent room. "An airport in Paris. We think he's simple connecting to a trans-Atlantic fight and are working on the passenger manifests for the airport now." Kendall moved over, wanting to claim back his territory over the briefing but not being able to stand up to Jack. He stood to the side, silent and unmoving. It took a second for him to move in, to show he was still here for a reason.   
  
"Agents Bristow and Vaughn, you'll be meeting up with Mr. Sark as soon as he lands. We're hoping the passenger manifests will allow us to make that happen. The objective is to bring him into custody as smoothly as possible. We're vying for the element of surprise to be on our side," he explained. Sydney sighed. It was never easy going on a mission, but with a window that could be as small as a few minutes, it would be harder. She'd joked before about keeping a packed suitcase in her trunk for those just in case moments. Now it was going to become something more than a joke.   
  
"What if we can't find out where Sark's heading?" Vaughn brought up, a pen balanced between two of the fingers on his right hand. A slight smile came to Sydney's face, but faded as her eyes caught on the slowly fading scar on his palm, some of the skin still pink after these months. The pen moved in between his fingers as his mind worked gracefully with the practice only years of passing his father's coin through his fingers could bring. "Sark's smart enough to disguise himself, use an alias."  
  
"We can see where he is, Agent Vaughn. It is a simple matter of seeing what flight leaves when he does."  
  
Vaughn leaned back in his chair, the pen still between his fingers, satisfied with the answer.   
  
"So we get to the airport before him and apprehend him as soon as he gets off the plane," Sydney stated more than asked. "Why does this sound too easy?"  
  
"Because it is?" Vaughn suggested, raising his brow, a hint of laughter in his words. The smile was contagious only to Sydney, the younger agents still remembering how to smile, to laugh, to bring humor to these lives of theirs.   
  
"You leave as soon as we know the destination," Kendall said briskly. The computer's whir died down as the hard disk did the same.   
  
"He's not going to be taken without a fight," Sydney announced to the room.   
  
"Then fight him," Kendall said nonchalantly. She closed her eyes momentarily, taking a breath. Easy for him to say - he didn't just get back from fighting him.   
  
. .   
  
"Got 'em." If the tech was nervous because Weiss had been standing looking over his shoulder for the last 20 minutes, he was doing an awesome job of hiding it. Only once in that time period had he glanced over his shoulder, and that was because Weiss' yo-yo had hit the back of his chair, breaking his concentration on the screen before him.   
  
But when he said 'got 'em', he keyed in a few commands and the flight plans and passenger manifests the other agents had been compiling flew to his screen. By comparing the location of the terminal with the data, the tech smiled and relaxed in his chair, having found the plane and destination.   
  
"Bogotá, Columbia. Should be there in 17 hours," he announced after a few seconds of compiling the data. Weiss nodded more to himself than to anyone else, and reached around the tech to the phone and punched in the number for op prep.   
  
"Op Prep."  
  
"This is Agent Weiss," he said quickly. If they left now, the CIA would have a 10 hour head start over Sark - more than enough time. "Are Agents Vaughn or Bristow there?"   
  
"Hold on," and he could hear the sounds of the phone being handed around the room. He waited impatiently - there were more calls to be made, and this one was certainly not on the top of his list. This was a prime example of the kinds of things he did for his friends.   
  
"Weiss?" Sydney's soft voice came through. He was caught off-guard for a second, not used to having her answer when he called for the pair. Oh God, were they now as attached by the hip in his mind as they were in real life? Were they becoming one of *those* couples?! Weiss made a mental note to save his friend later as the girlfriend continued to speak in his ear. "What is it?"  
  
"Bogotá. Bring a suit, I'm sure Mike'll like it," he grinned. The phone was such a wonderful invention, and was, at the moment, the only thing between him and a painful smack in the arm.   
  
"I'm hoping I won't be there long enough to use it," Sydney sighed. Her fatigue, her tiredness over this job was evident in her voice at that point, having let her guard down for that one second. "What's our advantage?" And like that, she was back to all business.   
  
"If you leave now, 10 hours."   
  
"Good, I've been needing a break - maybe I can get one after this."  
  
"So I hear," he muttered and slid under the radar. "Where's Mike?"  
  
"Up with Marshall, why?" she asked, her voice slightly distance as she cradled the phone between her head and shoulder. She grabbed the clipboard Nancy, the secretary in Op Tech, handed her and signed quickly for the mission's supplies, giving Nancy the flash of a smile before turning her back to her.   
  
"You left him alone with [i]Marshall[/i]?" Weiss asked, puzzled. He turned to look around the large, open room for any signs of Vaughn, but found his view obstructed by the small group gathered around the tech whose phone he was borrowing. A little self-conscious, he moved as far from them as the phone cord would allow.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Sydney," he said into the phone with an uncharacteristically hushed tone. "Marshall rambles, and often blurts things out *accidentally* when he - "  
  
The phone line went dead. Weiss held the phone out at arm's length and frowned.   
  
"Why do they always do that?" he asked himself. Was it too hard for them to shout a quick goodbye?  
  
. .   
  
She was out of breath by the time she arrived at Marshall's station. It only took her a few seconds to regain herself, a time she used to take in the scene. Marshall was sitting in his rolling chair, turned to face Vaughn who was perched on the stool at the edge of the station. They were laughing, smiles stretched across their features. This caused her to grin as well. Vaughn's smiles - real, full smiles - were rarer these days as his mind was constantly occupied.   
  
He was struggling, forcing himself to remember this data stored in his head, pulling up memories and analyzing them. He never said anything, though, just kept it all inside like always, but she heard him late at night, tossing and turning only to awaken angry. Angry at his father for doing this - for using him in such a way without clear explanation or reason. It would soon fade into manufactured understanding, then to disappointment in himself. That was the point he reached before getting up and leaving her side only to return some time later.   
  
So, with a smile on her own face, she approached.   
  
"Hey, Syd!" Vaughn greeted, somewhat more jubilant than earlier that morning. She crossed her arms and took an assertive step forwards, standing just inside the edge of Marshall's station that was quickly becoming cluttered. She could imagine the day when Kendall walked by only to trip over a blow up chair or odd invention of the week. Marshall was certainly a man who was in need of an office if there ever was one.   
  
"Hi, umm, Sydney," Marshall started, but Vaughn motioned toward him as he started to speak to Sydney.  
  
"Since this is just a simple retrieval mission, Marshall doesn't have anything for us," he said. "But, he does have a few good jokes. Tell her that last one you told me, Marshall." He had turned his attention back to the tech, oblivious to the almost envious look reflected in Marshall's eyes. He smiled, albeit tentatively, before switching over to the joke he'd told moments before.   
  
But Sydney's attention wasn't on the joke. Her eyes were distant, reading the windows flashing on Marshall's monitor. Her head moved to the side as she tried to examine it closer from her vantage point, unwilling to take even one step from Vaughn's side - she couldn't bring herself to leave when he was this happy, this - normal? Was that what this was? He was a normal man at that moment, enjoying jokes with his coworkers; not a man struggling on a daily basis with a past he didn't choose, and a present he wanted nothing to do with. He was mentally preparing for a battle he once again felt he must face alone. Did he not learn from his past mistakes?   
  
They were laughing around her. At first, it was soft, but gradually climaxed into full volume. The blinking on the monitor was gone, leaving only a simple wallpaper stretched across the enormous flat-screen. She shook her head and returned her attention to the two men standing a few feet from her. Both were looking at her oddly.   
  
"Did you even hear a word he said?" Vaughn asked, pushing off the stool.   
  
"Sorry, Marshall. I saw something flashing on your screen."  
  
"Oh, you did? Well, that could be any number of things. I have a game running, and you know - or maybe you don't know, but sometimes someone sends a message or something and it flashes and - "  
  
"Can you just check it for me? It would make me feel better," Sydney said, almost hugging herself. Marshall opened his mouth a bit to say something, but a sharp look from Vaughn made him stop, pout a bit, and turn to lean over his screen. Sydney sighed - she hated when Marshall was brushed aside in anger or annoyance. He was such a sweet, gentle person caught up in this world of lies and madness. What she wouldn't give to be back there in time when he was recruited and make it so he never was.   
  
"Looks like a glitch in the tracker, which is odd, because, well, there shouldn't be one - I'm going to have to fix that for next time. But it looks okay and everything. Did you, umm, find out where you're going?" At this point, he hit his forehead in frustration with his own mistake. "Bogotá, right, I knew that. Columbia. Is it safe to go there, because I heard on the news - well, actually my, umm, mom did and told me, but it's dangerous, right?"  
  
"We'll be fine," Sydney laughed. Everything was okay, nothing had been said about what was -   
  
"Oh, you know, I was wondering - and I'm sure you were too, but why would Sark be going there? So I was cross-referencing files and such and well, came upon the one I gave you and bingo! found it."  
  
Sydney groaned. Vaughn raised an eyebrow and put a hand on the desktop to his right.   
  
"What file?" he inquired in a cool, even voice. Marshall was a deer in headlights, or, in this case, in the high beams of two cold green eyes.   
  
Sydney swooped in to save him. "What did you find out about the location?"   
  
"Well, ummm," he started up nervously, "that was the last location I tracked that, umm, computer to."  
  
"I can't *believe* this!" Vaughn exclaimed, his hand rising only to slam down on the desktop it had been resting on. Marshall backed away ever so slightly.   
  
"Vaughn," Sydney started, reaching a had out. He swatted it away with a single precise movement of his left arm.   
  
"You were researching this behind my back," Vaughn bit out. His eyes were still straight ahead, focused on the clock over Marshall's right shoulder. 1:15 pm. They had to leave soon, if they were going to pull this off correctly.   
  
"I just wanted to help! You've been torturing yourself for months," defended Sydney. He tore his eyes from the clock as if there were an actual string connecting his gaze to the wall-mounted device. "Just, just try to understand me, Vaughn. I just wanted to help you."  
  
"I don't need your help!" he roared. Movement stopped, eyes turned. Vaughn, however, didn't comply with the rest of them, and swept out of Marshall's area with aged grace she hadn't seen on him before. It surprised her, as did many things about him. She thought of the other file, the one she'd had copied so many months ago but hadn't the heart to read. Maybe now was a good time to start.   
  
--  
  
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I mean, I didn't know he was going to get so upset and such and he really kinda scared me there - "  
  
"It's alright," Sydney sighed, watching Vaughn walk farther and farther from her field of vision. The hum and background noise of the large open room returned with every step farther he took, until finally he was gone. "We'd better tell my father - he'll want to know this."  
  
"Actually, umm, could you maybe tell him?" Marshall asked of her, twisting his clasped hands in a way that couldn't be comfortable. They twisted nervously as he scrunched up his face.   
  
"Sure, Marshall, I'll tell him."  
  
. .   
  
[b]Bogotá, Columbia[/b]  
  
One of the most insanely difficult activities in the life of a spy was jetting off on a mission in which cooperation was required when your partner wanted nothing more than to see you smashed down into small pieces.   
  
Sydney thought for a moment, the wind playing with the strands of brown hair that had escaped the hold of her ponytail holder as she stood at the edge of the doors of the old airplane hanger. She was sure Vaughn didn't want to see her in small pieces, nor did he want to see her dead at his own hands. But if the last 10 hours had been a sign of anything, it was that he was mad with her, for what she thought, were purely selfish reasons. Not a word had been spoken, and when she brought up the mission objectives for a final review, he'd simple slipped on the headphones provided and watched the end of the in-flight movie. Seeing that he'd rather watch a chick-flick than speak to her had been enough, and she went over everything on her own.   
  
He stood now, stoic, at least 10 feet from her, leaning on a crate in the corner near an airport attendant practicing his Spanish. Every so often he'd fumble over his words, maybe mispronouncing one or two parts. It was obvious not only to her, but the man he was speaking to that he hadn't spoken Spanish in a long time, having always relied on those around him, those in the field while he stood in that operations system. He was and always would be a desk man no matter how many times he ran out into the field with her, anyone could tell that of him after 10 minutes around him here. Or anywhere. But yet he continued, pushing himself as if he needed to prove himself with each passing day, that nothing he did was good enough. But for who?   
  
She sighed, frustrated with the current situation, a situation she herself got into without help from anyone else, and placed a hand on the old, rusted metal of the large hanger door before leaning out ever so slightly to check once again if the plane had arrived. A blast of hot air hit her square in the face, causing her to squish it up ever so slightly, blinking a few times before he eyes were used to the lighting change. In the distance, she could see the trees laid out at the edge of the terminals swaying the in the breeze, their simple beauty lost on the airport employees running back and forth on the ground near her. The wind shifted a bit, her pony tail shifting in the wind. Sydney turned.  
  
The man sat on a crate alone.   
  
"Shouldn't be much longer now," came Vaughn's soft voice from behind her. She smiled a bit, relived he was actually back to speaking with her, and pivoted on one foot to face him. He stood before her, but didn't see her. She could be sure of that. But for that fleeting moment, she realized his refusal to speak to her before was not an action founded in anger.   
  
Because in that moment she saw her father in him.   
  
Not in the manor of genetics or familiar relations, but of something else. He was cold, yet feeling, in a way she'd only seen her father pull off. Was he on that path, quickly descending until he became her father? But there was only one reason her father was that way.  
  
Protection  
  
Vaughn was *protecting* himself from the world. And she hated it.  
  
"Hey, listen, I'm sorry about - "  
  
"Don't worry about it," he cut her off, his eyes swinging down to gaze at her for just a moment. The returned to the horizon beyond the doorway just as fast as they were on her.   
  
"I am. I'm worried about you. You were always so, so," and she faltered. She actually faltered!   
  
"I know."  
  
"'Oh," she replied. He sighed and shifted slightly, his shoes scuffing the concrete floor.   
  
"I'm not questioning you or what you did," he said slowly, his eyes now focused on his shoes. A hand rose to go through his hair, then to rub the back of his neck. "I just feel that I don't need anyone else to help me deal with things."  
  
"We all need help sometimes, Vaughn."  
  
He smiled, just a tad. "Something I've learned from you."  
  
"Just because you feel you need to protect me, be there for me, it doesn't mean I can't do the same for you."  
  
"Then I guess we'll have to see how it goes, won't we," he said, slightly distracted. With her puzzled look, he pointed outside. A plane was landing, the very one they had been waiting for. She turned to look out at it, watching it land. It was time to get moving. Bringing a hand up to her right ear, she clicked on the com unit in her ear, connecting her to the rest of their team. Her team. And finally, the full impact of failure on herself personally caught up with her. If they let Sark escape now, she didn't know what would happened, but she knew it would be bad.   
  
The plane stopped in the runway, as they'd requested.   
  
"Wait for my signal," Sydney hissed into her earpiece, swearing she could hear the men on the other end shuffle and wake up from whatever naps they were taking. Or not. Trained men wouldn't sleep while on a mission, but then again, Vaughn wouldn't speak a sloppy language to some airport worker either. She pushed such trivial matters out of her mind, focusing into the zone she placed herself in when on a mission. All her mind worried about was her objective - and that was Sark, who could now be seen disembarking the plane with all the other confused passengers. She lowered the pair of binoculars she'd been looking through from her dark eyes only to have them snatched from her as Vaughn took his turn.   
  
She wasn't going to wait for him to finish looking out.   
  
"Move in. Target is wearing dark black suit with blue tie, sunglasses, blond hair," she shouted into her earpiece, thrusting the large metal door open and rushing out into the bright sunlight. Vaughn could be heard yelling something behind her, but it didn't matter as she rushed, flanked by 10 men in black with automatic weapons. Vaughn's footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching from behind her, the binoculars bobbing up and down in his right hand as he kept his left free.   
  
The cries of the innocent passengers reached them before everyone was clear to them, crying out in surprise and confusion, spinning to face their nameless companions in search of some kind of validation. That what they were seeing was really happening. The cries, in both English and Spanish, were nothing but ambient noise to the trained agents, who swept up into the crowd, searching for their mark. Wildly spinning around, guns threatening to hit those foolish enough to get in their way, the team scanned the scene. Where was he?   
  
"Sark!" Vaughn cried, the blond man catching his eye as he ran off towards the terminals. He took off himself, followed closely by Sydney and those members of the team who had heard his outburst. All the anger he felt from earlier, the hurt, the sense of betrayal, everything came bursting to the surface, his face twisting into an unrecognizable mask as he felt a burst of speed. Running, to him, was always the best method of release, the best way to forget everything that happened in the days or hours before. Yet now he had nothing on his mind, and relied on instinct as he ran.   
  
Sark spied him from over his right shoulder, his suit coat flying out behind him as he ran. He knew he had to loose the agents following him if he were to get out of here in once piece - get out of here free. They neared the maintenance area, thick with orange suited personnel in oversized headsets, half to engrossed in their tasks to notice the chaise occurring around them. Sark pushed one with a large tool, sending him off balance and finally, over. Vaughn jumped over him flawlessly while Sydney mumbled an apology to him as she passed him by.   
  
By now, Vaughn had taken out his gun, pointing it with one hand as he still gripped the binoculars in the other with a white-knuckled grip. They swayed with his arm, the other straight in front of him as he ran, his mind focused on catching Sark and nothing else. Though he wasn't the one with the personal vendetta against the man as Sydney was, nor did he ever care to catch the international hit man more than his patriotic sense of morality was concerned. So why was he chasing Sark down a rapidly narrowing pathway that could only end in dimly lit service corridors or overcrowded terminal walkways.   
  
He hoped for the former and kept running.   
  
A rapidly approaching luggage "train" snaked its way around the smaller area, the driver intent on reaching a soon-departing train and not worried about a horde of armed men rushing the stage. Sark took this opportunity to surprise the driver and cause the train to stop, giving him the chance to unbuckle the bags and allow them to tumble out in the direction of his chasers. The driver, who now was responsible to clean up this mess, shouted at Sark in Spanish as he continued off, hoping this small momentary action might buy him enough time to escape. He had a large feeling that this whole chase had to do with the CIA's ingenious idea of planting a bug on him and their uncanny knack of turning up precisely where he didn't want nor need them. A kink in his plan, but a fixable situation none the less.   
  
The luggage lost them some of the following members of the team, as well as the over-enthusiastic leader, Vaughn, who, despite his graceful vaulting over several pieces of luggage caught a foot on a particularly large suitcase and fell forward, thankful for the other assorted pieces lying around to cushion his fall. Sydney paused, her mind on him instead of their prisoner-to-be. She bent down to meet him, but he pushed her away, using the larger pieces to pull himself up.   
  
"Don't loose him!" he hissed through clenched teeth, wavering on his feet for a second as a wave of pain pulsated through his right ankle. Sydney wavered herself, but rushed off as his eyes, a piercing cold green, commanded her to do so. The team followed, passing him as if he were the slow kid on a long distance run in high school. He swore and tested it out carefully, finding the pain in his ankle small when compared to the pain that had been weighing down his heart for the last four months - and if he could get through day to day life with that, he could continue running. Leaning forward for extra momentum, he sprung from his position and followed along. He couldn't be that far behind everyone else - could he be?   
  
A gunshot echoed through the air, but didn't phase the natives, who continued on with their work. Apprehension gripped Vaughn's already stressed heart, and he moved quicker.   
  
He came upon Sark, backed against a wall, and Sydney, standing across from him, holding out her gun, a bullet hole in the wall next to Sark's head. Smoke continued to rise from it as Sark stood stationary, Sydney and several armed men standing around him. Vaughn came to a stop just behind Sydney, his eyes still as cold as they'd been before. His weight was on his good ankle, the pain from the other slowly seeping up his leg.   
  
"Well, we meet again, Agent Bristow," Sark commented coolly. Almost too coolly for Sydney's taste, considering his current situation. "Thought you made sure we would meet again. Very clever."  
  
"Why, thanks," she retorted sarcastically. Sark kept eye contact with her, his fingers inching down the side of his other arm in an outwardly casual manor. A distraction, no matter what size, was all he needed. "Put your hands above your head, Sark, because I won't miss next time."  
  
"And here I thought it was your shoddy marksmanship skills that made you miss," he responded, bating her. Vaughn hung his head - she'd taken it, he could tell by her changed posture, how the grip on her gun increased. She moved to take a step forward, but Sark had reached the item inside his sleeve; a dagger.   
  
The blond-haired man moved with an unknown grace, twisting to his left and jumping a bit, gaining the leverage he required to plunge the dagger into the man standing there. A cried escaped the dying man's lips, prompting his teammates to open fire - but the man was simply used as a shield as Sark ducked behind an incoming trolley. The gunfire hit the metal like hale descending from the sky, and continued as the trolley moved along.   
  
Sark was no longer behind it.   
  
Sydney whipped her head around - looking at the scene from every angle, but failed to locate her target. She ran, ran in the direction she believed him to have gone in, but found nothing as she continued down the corridor between to large arms of the airport, terminals and planes moving on either side. It was darker down here, colder. A pungent smell assaulted her senses, causing her to shift, her movement segmented.   
  
A dead end.   
  
She stopped, her head going towards the blue sky, wishing for a bit of sun down where she was. She'd failed. He had been right there, right there! And she had let him go. Not only that, but one of the men with her would return home in a casket, to be shown to his family as they struggled to remain emotionless in the face of death.   
  
"Where are you!" she screamed, her hands moving with her emotion. The gun she held waved in her hand, threatening to kill the birds perched nearby. "Where. Are. You!" She screamed again, frustrated with herself, with her failure. What would happen now?   
  
Vaughn came up behind her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders from behind, protocol be dammed. The gun fell from her side, clanking on the cement ground below her. She leaned back into him, only to be pushed away, forward. She turned, confused, but saw him favoring his ankle, an odd grin on his face.   
  
Is this what the life had become? Could you attach yourself to someone only to have the attachment to revenge, to retribution, overtake that love? And if she felt that only to a smaller degree with Sark and Slone, what was happening in his mind?   



	10. Ipse Dixit Part B

**Title**: Chronic Vertigo  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be. 

**Chapter Four**\\ Ipse Dixit  
_Part A_

_Ipse Dixit: An assertion without proof._

  
So, you're saying that the toys from Burger King are superior to those from McDonald's? Eric Weiss asked from his perch on the edge of Marshall's desk. The tech nodded, albeit distractedly, as he scanned his screen full of fast images and lines of text. Weiss shook his head before taking another bite of his big mac, wishing for once he could have a normal sit-down-and-eat lunch hour. Of course, most people with that weren't waiting for a CIA team operating in Columbia against international law to come off radio silent. No, this wasn't stressful at all.

He put the burger down on the wax-coated paper it came in and wiped his hands together. No, that's not right, man.

Well, if you think about the endorsements and contracts that have to be drawn up and, at this point in his ramble, he swiveled in his chair to face Weiss, well, they just have contracts with different movie studios and networks, and I must say, Burger King got all the good ones. Which is odd, because that's a British company. You wouldn't think that they would get the good toys instead of an American company. Did you know the first one was in Des Planes, outside Chicago? They have these, these cardboard people inside, and he started posing as if he were cardboard, that just stand there to make it look all real? It's not open or anything, but there's one across the street that y-

Marshall, take a breath, buddy, Weiss grinned, nabbing a fry from the tech. He'd finished his ages ago, which was important to remember, since Marshall's were now cold. Ice cold. Weiss made a face and slowly chewed it, his mind full of wonder at how Marshall could stand eating cold food all the time. Of course, he probably had some sort of invention to make it warmer. Or, he simply had a mini microwave around here somewhere. Now the key to taking the rest of his fries was finding it and using it as soon as possible.

An easy task to do, since Marshall had lost interest in the conversation once again, and was facing his monitor, working on God knows what. Weiss frowned and moved to finish off his big mac, only to be surprised by Marshall rushing out of his chair, a piece of paper cluched in his hand. He muched down on the burger, uneffected. He was used to this by now.

. .

Thank God he was wearing his vest.

Yeah, let's thank God, because if he weren't around, this could have ended a lot worse.

Don't remind me.

Mark Hutchensen was feeling a little better, the cool air of the air conditioning blowing on his face as he lay on top of a pasty bedspread in a commercialized hotel on the edge of the city. Over him stood two of his teammates – friends since they'd been assigned to LA – discussing his current condition as if he was so gone, he wouldn't be able to hear him. His last comment, however, had alerted them that he was indeed awake, and their conversation died down. Wasn't it supposed to work the other way around?

How are you feeling? the fair-haired one, Kane, asked of him. He shrugged as best he could in his lying position.

I just had a small knife jabbed into my leg. How do you think I feel? he retorted sarcastically. Kane laughed, only to be hit by the other, Litovich, in the shoulder.

C'mon, man, he chided.

So, am I going to live, doctor? Hutchensen asked of the pair. This time, both grinned, no chiding necessary.

You were a distraction, Marky. We bandaged you up – but you're gonna ache like a mother for the rest of the week, Kane informed him. Hutchensen sighed.

At least we were all kind enough to aim for areas we knew were protected by the vest, Litovich added as an afterthought.

Yeah, so see? It could have been worse, Kane smirked. Litovich frowned and moved to push his shoulder again, but Kane successfully dodged it by moving to the side just a bit.

Here's what I don't get, Kane continued, sitting on the edge of the bed. Hutchensen had flashbacks to those chick flicks his wife always made him watch, where the concerned lover would sit on the side of their injured partner's bed, hoping they'd wake up. He suddenly wasn't so happy with their current arrangement, and shifted himself into a sitting position, wincing with every move. Damn. His chest was going to hurt for a week, at the least.

he asked, once he'd propped himself up on the tall headboard.

That guy – okay, wait, did we just run across the runway of a Columbian airport? Because I'm pretty sure we shouldn't have done that.

You think?

So we're just random terrorists? Litovich asked, serious when he should have been joking.

That's what the plan was, Sydney's voice floated in from the doorway, the interconnecting room on the other side visible beyond her narrow frame. A few other members of the team could be seen mulling around, one with a bandage on his ankle. Hutchensen relaxed; he wasn't the only one not walking away completely unscathed.

Really? That simple? Kane asked of her. She nodded, her ponytail flopping on her shoulders as she did so.

Simple works. Just don't plan on taking a vacation down here any time soon, she continued, a small smile tugging on her lips.

She was feeling much better, the knowledge that Hutchensen was fine relieving her of all that anger and sadness. And the fact that he was awake and talking just improved her dismal day ten fold.

Sydney didn't think she'd be able to live through another CIA death because of her foolishness. She already had several on her conscious.

Hutchensen smiled as well as Kane and Litovich started to argue over him.

. .

He's fine?

Sydney walked around to the edge of the old double bed and fell down onto it next to him, falling to her back, arms spread wide away from her sides. They sat that way for a moment, until Sydney scrunched up her face like a child and reached up to take the ponytail holder from her hair, allowing it to spread over the horribly patterned bedspread in a long wave of chocolate brown. Vaughn turned his head, cocked to the side as if he were analyzing a priceless piece of art.

And in a way, she was one, at least to him. But he could see her scars, her internal ones, as clear as if they were marring her skin. Long, deep, jagged ones he wished he could cure with the wave of a hand. And over time, he'd seen some shrink and disappear, content with being there for her when she needed him the most.

He wondered, briefly, if she could see his.

She looked up at him, a smile on her lips, mischief in her eyes. A hand came up to his bicep, pulling him down to the bed next to her, the arm used to pull him down behind his sweaty neck. He sighed, looking up to the drab, cracking ceiling, wishing he didn't have to be here, now. Wishing he could run away, if only for a moment.

He wanted it all to be over. For life, at least his, to return to normal. For there not to be this huge weight hanging over his head, ready to drop at a moment's notice. At least now he knew exactly how Sydney had felt for all those years as a double.

Wouldn't it be great if we could just go out and enjoy the city? Sydney asked suddenly, her voice playful. Vaughn smiled and flipped up onto his side, facing her, a hand moving up to brush some hair from her face.

It's ironic, isn't it? he asked of her. Her smile faltered for a second.

What is?

Rome. Remember? I was going to take you out when this was all over. And now that it is, we're still stuck in a hotel room, wishing we could go out.

But this time, she responded, moving to lie on her side now, facing him. It's because of international politics and not affiliations.

True. It's funny how the world works, that's all, he observed, falling back onto the bed.

How's that ankle feeling?

I'll live.

Remind me to give you some special care when we get home, she grinned. Vaughn's eyebrows raised as he laughed.

I'm going to remember you said that, he smirked. She grinned down at him.

I'll make sure of it.

. .

Whoah, slow down, slow down! Director Kendall called out to a running Marshall, half-afraid the tech would crash into something – someone – or fall. There was no need for him to be running through the halls here, and while Kendall was well aware of Marshall's performance in the field, he still didn't trust him to be completely safe while in a room full of people and expensive equipment.

Director Kendall! Marshall called out, skidding to a practiced stop in front of the FBI director, surprising the taller, balding man. So Sydney and Eric asked me to pull this file they'd been wondering about and find what information I could find about that computer thingy and everything. I couldn't find any information at first, which was a bit discouraging and such, so I tried searching through back channels – I know I shouldn't have but I mean, this was for a friend, or rather two, and I had to – you know, it was – 

My patience is growing thin; get to the point, please, Kendall almost groaned in frustration. Marshall thrust out his hand, almost shoving the piece of paper he'd been holding into Kendall's face.

I've found out why Sark was in Columbia.

Kendall's eyes widened just a bit. You have?

Marshall nodded, and opened his mouth to begin explaining, but Kendall held up a hand to stop him. A long, rambling explanation was not needed nor was it acceptable at that time. He needed the *reason* and he needed it right then, while the team was still in Bogata.

Marshall sobered a bit, then said to him with downcast eyes. He was – 

. .

- inquiring about something Mitchell currently possesses and had just put on the market, Kendall explained, his voice sounding tinny coming out of the satellite phone. The volume had been cranked up as high it would go, making the usual manageable crackling that came through with the director's voice unnerving, annoying even. The static sound floated through the vacated hotel room, the sounds of the group talking next-door only second to it as they awaited further orders.

What was that? Sydney asked. She was seated on the end of one of the beds next to Vaughn, the phone held between them as if she were sharing a song she liked via headphones. He was absentmindedly pulling on the bandage Tessler, the group's medically trained member, had put on his throbbing ankle, only half-listening to the conversation and Kendall's report.

Sydney cast him a look, which was returned with one of innocence.

Apparently, Mitchell recovered the Caveat Computer – 

There's a name for it now? Vaughn asked, the picking of his ankle bandage stopping as he invested full attention on the conversation. Kendall cleared his throat.

Yes, Agent Vaughn. It doesn't help to speak in abstracts all the time, he said quickly. Vaughn sighed.

he asked, prompting Kendall to continue.

Apparently, Marshall was able to track Slone to Mitchell through some, shall we say, back channels. Sydney smiled. Marshall would always do whatever it took to help his friends, something she liked about him. Sark was simply going to meet up with Sloane, we think to help him with transport.

So you're saying, Vaughn started, his head bowed as his hands held it. that Sloane is after it.

It's a very strong possibility that he already has it in his possession, Kendall answered. Sydney closed her eyes, her jaw tightening. There was only one way Sloane would know about the archaic piece of equipment – Irina. And if Irina had told Sloane about the computer, there was an even stronger possibility that she'd continued on with this tale that was spinning wildly out of control. That in order to get the information out of it, he was going to need *someone*. Sloane wouldn't go through the trouble of getting the computer only to become squeamish at the thought of having to kidnap a CIA officer.

In the event that he doesn't have it yet, or that this Mitchell is smart enough to store it off his property, your team is to advance to his estate and apprehend him for questioning concerning this computer and all business dealings with Sloane. We'll be questioning him here in LA, so just get him here. For a ghost, he sure has made a name for himself.

Kendall hung up. Sydney sighed and fanned herself with her free hand, the heat in the room overwhelming. She rose, stretching, concerned, upset, and decided to open the window once again. She spied Vaughn's reflection in the glass of the window, how he sat there, hunched, almost defeated.

She opened the window, then turned, ready to comfort him.

But he was gone.

. .

Michael Vaughn was not the kind of man who let his emotions get the best of him.

When he was eight, he cried. And every time he'd start crying, even if it were over a skinned knee, his mother would collect him into her arms and cry as well. He'd look up at her, his heart breaking to see his mother so sad. He never wanted her to feel sad – he was the man of the house now.

So, when he was ten, he decided enough was enough. If he stopped crying, his mother would stop and be happy again. So, through the summer of skinned knees and a broken arm, he never once shed a tear. It was hard, especially when he did fall from that tree, his bone sticking out at an odd, horrifying angle. But he wouldn't cry, something even the doctor at the emergency room commented on.

His mother, sensing something was wrong with her son, tried to talk to him. It was only after a friend of hers came over one hot, suffocating summer of his 12th year that she realized it was for her, and she cried that night with him, telling him that he didn't need to be so strong for her.

Vaughn, on the other hand, felt he'd failed.

It seemed, by the time he reached high school, that anger, or frustration, was the only emotion he showed. His apparent stoicism continued on through college, and while his mother always chastised him for it, the Agency saw it as an admirable quality.

He'd truly become admonished.

It wasn't to say he didn't feel, or express happiness. He just never let his emotions show. He saw them, especially crying, as a weakness.

Which is why, instead of emptying all his stomach contents or sitting huddled in the corner holding back tears, he was leaning against the sink, water still dripping off his face from when he splashed it there. The light was still off – he hadn't bothered to turn it on when he rushed in there – the only light coming from the space around the closed door. It cast a haunted glow on his strained features.

Sydney's soft voice came through the door. She opened it slowly, the light spilling into the hollow, cold bathroom. She made a small noise, happy to escape the drenching heat of the outdoors, wondering why she hadn't thought of coming in here sooner.

Wow, it's nice in here, she said, mostly to herself. You disappeared, is everything ok? Sydney tentatively placed a hand on his hunched shoulder. He flinched slightly, but turned, his eyes clear.

I'm fine, just a little warm, he replied, a half-smile dancing upon his lips.

Vaughn, you can't tell me that after that y – 

He interrupted her, his arms crossing. After what?

That, Vaughn! her arm motioned to the other room where the sat phone lie. We know Sloane's on this trail now. Can you honestly say you're fine?

Don't Syd me. You've been – different lately, she said quickly. Vaughn cocked his head to the side, his arms still crossed defensively.

Sydney froze. She wasn't going to say anything; isn't that what she told herself? Never going to tell him that his smiles weren't smiles anymore? That he didn't talk to her like he used to? That he was living in his own head, brooding over the future that was to come? The past that had?

You, you just – you don't talk.

I don't talk?

Well, you've never really talked. I was always coming to you with my problems, always telling you what was wrong in my life. And not once did you come to me. No one's that collected, Vaughn.

Just because I don't like broadcasting my problems – 

Sydney narrowed her eyes. Broadcasting my problems? Is that what I've been doing? Vaughn sighed, one of his hands moving to rub his chin. Well, I'm sorry if my problems have been such a burden

Her words faded, like the sound was sucked away through a small tube as her mouth kept moving. He didn't need this right now, he didn't need any of it. What happened to his semi-normal life, when he was just the outsider to all these games they played, watching from the sidelines, giving advice when he could? He wasn't supposed to be part of this – this wasn't his life. But now, now he was there, was in the center and the others were telling him what he could do, what he should be doing.

Sloane was going to come after him. If not now, with information from Irina; then later, with information from someone else, and it wasn't going to be a pleasant meeting. How was a man who couldn't remember give Sloane what he wanted? Would he believe Vaughn, or, what would he do in order to satisfy his own desires?

Those photos from his father's file rushed up at him, those charred remains and contrasted x-rays the ultimate reminder of what could happen, would happen to him in this life. But the face in the photos, inserted by his mind's eye, soon morphed into his own, the tears of his mother in the background intensifying. He spun, or believed himself to spin, trying to find her, to comfort her.

Sydney had stopped talking. Vaughn spun, his foot catching on the sink's tall, long leg, the full force of his weight barreling forward across to the opposite wall and the edge of the bath tub. Frantic, Sydney diving forward, her arms coming out to catch him. But she lost her footing as well, tumbling down at the same time, her head coming back to smack into the wall. With a thud, she came down, Vaughn catching himself at the last moment, a strong arm catching the edge of the tub, the other resting on the other side of Sydney. He looked down at her, and for the first time, he looked so confused and afraid, she felt it was a stranger looking down at her.

What happened? she asked, reaching up with her free hand and rubbing the back of her head. Vaughn groaned as he lifted himself up, squeezing in between her and the side of the tub, his knees drawn up to his chest. He focused on the wall across from them, the print hanging above the toilet becoming the most interesting thing in the room.

I don't know, he replied. How do you deal with this? he asked after a moment of introspective silence, a sigh escaping narrowed lips.

With what?

Knowing you've become a target, that you've – 

She finished for him. Lost your individuality? It's hard.

I can imagine.

But I get though it, she continued, as if he hadn't spoken a word. I have you.

Her words hung heavy in the small South American bathroom, and for that instant, time and place didn't matter. They existed entirely in a plane all their own, away from bad guys and jobs, identity and classification. The slate wiped clean – it was time to switch roles, for the protector to become the protected, for her to become what he had been to her all those times.

I'm afraid I won't be much help, he laughed. She placed a hand on his arm, his skin warm under her cool hand.

But, Vaughn, you've forgotten. You have me.  



	11. Ipse Dixit Part C

**Chronic Vertigo**  
Chapter Four: Ipse Dixit [Part C] 

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be. 

  
Jeeps, for all their commercials advertised, were not the most comfortable automobiles to ride in. In fact, Sydney reflected, this had to be one of the most horrible rides she'd ever been on. Her head hit the rear roll-bar as they sped over another large rock lodged in the poorly kept road, speeding off for the tree-hidden hills high above the downtown, larger homes becoming more and more commonplace outside of the poverty stricken city limits. Rubbing her head, she ducked down a bit, slouching in her seat so to prevent another round as a human punching bag for the horribly kept road.   
  
Her head twisted to the side as they went over another bump in the road, bringing Vaughn into her field of vision. He sat only a few inches from her yet she'd never felt so far from him before. His normally readable gaze was empty, skimming over treetops. Her first emotion was concern, but she had possessed that gaze before, when she was walking into the world with a new view. What if Sloane was still there? What if this Mitchell knew of Vaughn's handicap? Would he be walking into certain death, or would they be gone, the added mission for naught?   
  
A large bump jostled him back to reality, his head painfully hitting the side support he was seated next to. He grimaced, looking over at her as if to say _damn this road, that hurt!_, a boyish smile springing momentarily to his lips. His eyes were back, hardened, ready for the mission at hand.   
  
The Jeep rounded one last corner, bringing the back side of Mitchell's large estate into view. The driver quickly swerved out of view, sending all the passengers into one another, jostled together as they were pasted against the passenger side. Through the dust she could see the second Jeep do the same behind them, the other driver copying the moves exactly. A grove of trees lay to the east, concealing their vehicles. As soon as the Jeep came to a stop, most of the team climbed out, their feet raising small poufs of dust as they landed.   
  
"Do we have any data on this place?" someone asked from beyond the close trees, their tone flat.   
  
"Nothing more than given - you were standing right next to me," another shot at him, a sarcastic look prevalent in his eyes if they could be seen in the shadow world created by the fading sunlight. Instead, he was but a mere shadow beyond the spines of trees, shifting ever so slightly as to show his discomfort with the situation at hand. A man short, running to apprehend a ghost.   
  
Yes, dusk was the perfect time for this new mission.   
  
The fleeing sunlight wanted nothing more to do with this human realm, the shadows cast by its light a last gift before slipping behind the immeasurable horizon and casting the world into its own shadow. Selfish reasons sent the world into this eerie twilight, where man and ghost lived as one for a few moments. But wasn't it said that only a ghost could hunt a ghost?  
  
"I've got a bad feeling about this," the first said. "I get these bad feelings before some missions - they always endbadly."  
  
"Either that, or you had those spicy fries before we left. How many times do I have to tell you not to eat those?" the second retorted, his voice barley above a whisper, yet impressively commanding. It was hard to distinguish between a mother barking at her child and an officer directing his subordinate; he made no distinction between the two when speaking.   
  
His children were most assuredly well-behaved.   
  
"No, no. I mean, we're sending two people in before us? Do you really need me to tell you all the things that could go wrong?" the worried man's voice quavered just a bit.   
  
"Nothing will go wrong if you stop worrying and cover us," Vaughn shot into the trees. The shuffling stopped, the sound of the men breathing the only sound now. He turned to Sydney as she was checking her equipment for a final time, neurotic to the core even after all these years, a trait that had saved her life more than once. Countless times.   
  
"Let's go. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can try to run away," she smiled at him, catching his gaze for a moment.   
  
He laughed. "Yeah, right. Keep dreaming."  
  
"What can I say? I'm a dreamer at heart."  
  
"I know."  
  
---  
  
Mitchell, as he was known by his men, could move without making a sound.   
  
Employees came and went, but the stories always remained, as if timeless remains embedded in the very walls. Stories of men who had been fired because of their exclamation of surprise once their employer came up behind them. Or how some had been caught doing unthinkable acts because they had no idea they were being watched. Yes, Mitchell could move about his home unseen and unheard, floating around and watching, waiting.   
  
So his surprise was great when he suddenly found himself shoved against the wall of an inner hallway, the familiar heart wrenching coldness only a handgun could bring pressed against the base of his neck. With his head twisted to look down into darkness as the hallway continued, then turned towards the south, his attacker remained an anonymous outsider. Their breathing was hard, pounding down on his neck as their grip on his wrists tightened, handcuffs sliding around them effortlessly. Bound and assaulted in his own home, surrounded by legions of armed guards. He was dealing with no amateur.   
  
"What the hell is going on?" his rough voice gasped out, his lungs finally regaining the air lost when slammed up against the hard surface.   
  
"Is there someplace we can talk?" a man's voice inquired, no demanded. Mitchell froze, his breath now caught in his throat, the blood in his veins as cold as ice. If not for the gun, the hairs on the back of his neck would have risen. He had anticipated the heavily accented voice of a disgruntled employee or punk kid looking for a quick way to score some cash. People such as those could be dealt with swiftly, as they had been in the past. Handcuffs were no large hindrance for this aging man, and had the man not spoken then, he would have most certainly moved to insure his freedom.   
  
But that voice - _that voice!_ The tone, the inflection, it was off a bit as if foreign influences had unconsciously weaved themselves into the speech pattern, but he knew it no matter how much time had transpired. His mind reeled, his neck burning with the desire to turn, to twist and see the face, the man.   
  
It was said, in some cultures, that only a ghost could fight a ghost.   
  
"I don't think he's listening," a woman said, her voice louder than the ghost's - she was the one holding the gun on him. An elbow was jabbed into his ribs. Initial shock finally receding, Mitchell coughed and motioned to the nearest door to an empty bedroom. The door was promptly kicked in; he was shoved inside.   
  
Like many of the extra rooms inside the home, it was decorated simply yet tastefully, with all the furniture required for guests that never arrived nor stayed. The woman shoved him on to the large, four-poster bed, the smell of age and disuse causing him to cough again. Nostalgia rose. Days gone by flashed in his mind. The ghost came into view.   
  
A gasp caught in Mitchell's throat. While he was now an old man, his hair once deep brown now light grey like pepper, the ghost had not aged a day. He hovered before his eyes, his gaze cold and hard.   
  
"Hello there, Mr. Mitchell," he grinned soullessly, his lips stretched in to more of a smirk than anything else.   
  
"Bill" he breathed, but stopped. The eyes, they were all wrong. It all suddenly and painfully clicked into place, and his fear intensified. For the ghost would not harm him as much as this man of flesh and blood would - could. "Michael. You've grown."  
  
"Vaughn?" the woman asked, puzzlement clear on her face. She obviously was not as good as him at hiding her emotions. A weakness.   
  
"My father had two different colored eyes. It just took a moment, didn't it, Mitchell? I've been told the resemblance is uncanny," Vaughn explained, his eyes, both green, never leaving Mitchell's face. He'd never known this man, of him or his existence. But already the hate was building inside him. It was funny how it did that. First, his father's murderer, and now his Judas.   
  
"You got the better half of his," Mitchell forced out a thin laugh. "I've always thought brown was a boring eye color. No offense," he added as an afterthought to Sydney. She brushed off his comment with a wave of her hand.   
  
"Trust me, none taken."  
  
"I don't believe I got your name," Mitchell said, shifting on the bed to face Sydney, keeping Vaughn in his peripheral vision.   
  
"You don't need to know her name," Vaughn said, pulling back Mitchell's attention.   
  
"You just had a meeting with a man, Arvin Sloane. We need to know what was discussed at this meeting," Sydney continued, ignoring Vaughn's protective comment. Mitchell laughed.   
  
"I didn't get this far in life by giving away the details of all my business meetings, dear."  
  
"No, you got this far by betraying your friends and walking over them like stepping stones," Vaughn bit out, his voice like a whip, pulling Mitchell's gaze back to him.   
  
"I would like to ask you how you know what this life is like," he started, his tone soft, wistful. "If your father were still alive today, you would never be standing here, never would be in this world."  
  
"If my father were still alive, many things would be greatly different."  
  
"He never wanted this for you - why can't you see that? You stand there and blame me for his death, I can see it in your eyes. And you're the one throwing it away. I'm not deserving of this hate any more than you are," he continued, shaking his head.   
  
Vaughn moved fast - faster than Sydney had ever seen him move - and had his arm around Mitchell's throat before she could move to restrain him. But she suspected this new spurt of speed came not from extra hours spent improving his physical condition ever since his time in the field had increased, but from the attack on the core of his being; the meaning of his entire life. She found herself moving slow as she rounded him and grabbed beneath his arms, tugging at his frame.   
  
"Vaughn, get. Off. Him," she commanded, and fully expected him to comply. But he leaned in closer, his face mere inches from Mitchell's. He never spoke, though, and allowed his actions to speak for him. What could he say? Words were meaningless now. Simply formalities to measure up your opponent.  
  
"Yeah, I thought so," Mitchell spat. "You ungrateful child. And to think, he had such high expectations for his oldest son. At least Alex lived up to them."  
  
Vaughn usually kept his composure in situations like these, his temper in check. So what he did next was unexpected even to him.   
  
He punched Mitchell square in the jaw.   
  
Seeing this scenario was spiralling drastically out of hand, Sydney pulled as hard as she could, finally managing to dislodge Vaughn from atop their prisoner.   
  
"Alpha, we've secured the prisoner. Proceed to rendezvous," he spoke sharply into his com as Sydney pulled Mitchell to his feet. With his hands bound behind him, blood from his split lip ran onto his chin. "I'm done with him," Vaughn said to her, and walked right out of the room.   
  
She simply followed, dumbfounded.   
  
::  
  
"Did they take the bait?"  
  
Sark leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting from the woman seated to his side off to the ocean beyond. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette at that moment, something to complete the James Bond image he was going for. At least the villainous image he'd seen as a child. But weren't all the villains Russian or Chinese? He gave Irina Derevko a side-glance for a second. He didn't quite get why "lackeys" as they were called were such small, insulted characters. If being a lackey meant he made a large, comfortable amount of money and allowed him to exercise a certain degree of freedom while remaining anonymous in the larger game, so be it. Even if Irina failed (which he doubted), he could move on, find someone else who required his services.   
  
"I believe so," he replied, his words sharp, enunciated. Never could one claim that he was difficult to understand, even at his worst he still maintained that British air of superiority that stretched over to his elevation above other English speakers. "What I don't understand," he continued, leaning forward in the leather chair. It groaned under him as he shifted, the heat taking it's toll on the material. "Is why, if he was believed to be dead, did they send a team in so quickly?"  
  
"How much time passed between the tip and the team being deployed?" Irina asked, hand on her chin. Sark thought for a moment.   
  
"4 hours, at the most. It seems odd, to be working off a hunch like that."  
  
"They're groping at anything that might lead them to Sloane," she replied.   
  
"And us. Don't forget, Irina, that we must be careful as well. I only hope you've insured the proper precautions were taken when dealing with this man," he continued, leaning his elbows on to his knees. "I cannot stress to you enough how much I wish to remain," Sark paused here, as if searching for the right word, "elusive, especially under these heightened conditions." 

Irina turned to him and smiled. "Don't worry, Sark. I have everything under control."  
  
When he'd first met Irina, those small, sly smiles had really irked him in some way. Not that they made him angry, it was more of an uncomfortable feeling. It was the kind of smile that fit the Mona Lisa; this smile that meant she knew something no one else knew, smiling at those who couldn't figure out the clues that lay around her. It took some getting used to, yet even now, as she sat next to him, he couldn't see what she had planned.   
  
And he hated it.   
  
He supposed, for a moment, that it was part of the lackey package, this uncertainty. But he was deep, now, and the less he knew, the harder it would be for him to escape relatively unscathed. It wasn't a matter of trust, no, not at all. Instead, this apprehension on his part to dive deeper in the water was more a self-preservation sensation. He hadn't gotten this far in life by being a fool.   
  
"I have everything covered," she continued speaking, breaking into his self-reflective revelry of thought. "By the time they realize - "  
  
"The intelligence of the CIA, or rather, the lack of it, is one thing I always count on," he interrupted. "But to switch to a more pressing topic, have you received any more leads?"  
  
Irina was across the room now, pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher left out on the counter. She whirled around gracefully, seeming to open the freezer door, retrieve some ice, and let it fall into her glass with one fluid motion. The heat in the room made him long for a glass himself, but he remained motionless in his chair, ice blue eyes gazing out into a matching sea. Even something as small as the need for a cool beverage could be seen as a weakness, and while Irina could afford to appear weak before him, he did not have the same luxury while in her company.   
  
"Alksandr Zhuravlev," she answered simply, taking a sip of her water. A bit of condensation dripped down the side, wasted precious water dripping to an immaculate tiled floor below. Had he not been utterly surprised by her answer, his throat would have caused him to grab a glass of the substance himself. But sitting forward in his chair, a smile on his face, he forgot his parched nature and let out a small laugh.   
  
"I can hardly believe that - "  
  
"Zhuravlev has always been a brilliant tactician," she interrupted, leaning against the counter. Sark finally stood, flabbergasted by her revelation that Alksandr Zuravlev, a seemingly unremarkable man and lapdog of the American Labor Department, could have anything to do with an old piece of equipment or anything else they might be looking for.   
  
"I am getting the feeling that we may not be speaking about the same man," he replied testily. Irina abandoned the glass on the counter before walking back into the carpeted living room area of the beach house.   
  
"In the late 1970's, Zhuravlev saw the market as it was - breaking and ready to be bought. While the KGB did survive through the 1980's, it was of no matter to him. He simply used them to his advantage."  
  
"Keeping his investments safe?" Sark raised. Irina nodded.  
  
"Safe until ABC was formed in 1994. He saw the American businesses flood into Volgograd - " she seemed to wince at the new name for an old city " - and decided it would be a prosperous alliance."  
  
"ABC is just a group of consultants," Sark replied when she'd finished for the moment. "What would being allied with a group of American Business consultants do to help Zhuravlev's investments?"  
  
"Think of the ties to America. With several manufacturing plants coming into the area, they would need supplies and workers. Zhuravlev controlled both these things in the area and around, he had for 20 years."  
  
"Since the 1970's, like you said. Zhuravlev deals not in goods, but in people?" Sark asked, his face a stoic mask where others would have been horrified and pale.  
  
"Resources, Mr. Sark," Irina smiled. Understanding dawned on Sark's face - he finally got why Zhuravlev was the one to talk to.   
  
"Like computers," he breathed. It took him a moment to mull this over before he looked up to her, confused on a point. Always intuitive beyond normal, Irina licked her lips and continued.   
  
"William Vaughn was after this equipment in the middle of the cold war, Sark. Who else would be in possession of that information but the KGB, out to bring down the thorn in their side called the CIA?" she posed rhetorically, almost laughing. "After his death, the CIA must have read his last report and knew the information was inaccessible, and even in those days, only those who had been studying computers for years knew how to fully use them. The search was called off and the computer faded into the KGB's bureaucracy."  
  
"Zhuravlev must have been fully vetted before ABC and the American Labor Department would have agreed to such an alliance with him," Sark interjected.   
  
"It was their success or failure. Zhuravlev agreed to provide them what they needed if, in exchange, they allowed him to have full control over all his assets. They were in no position to threaten him."  
  
"And I'm sure none of this appears on the company website," Sark quipped.   
  
"Naturally."  
  
"But I must voice this, and forgive me if I sound pretentious. But wouldn't Zhuravlev withhold this computer from us once he learns of its apparent value? If he were in the KGB, as you say, wouldn't he have searched for the means to use the computer himself?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ah ha. So most of our work has already been done for us."  
  
"He just requires a bit ofpersuasion," Irina grinned. There was nothing like a good challenge, and surprising an old associate was always an added bonus. 


	12. Catalyst Part A

**Chronic Vertigo**  
Chapter Four: Catalyst [Part A]

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Thanks guys, for your reviews. As soon as I finish my Christmas fic, this fic will get all my attention and I'll post more often. That is, if I get more feedback. Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation. 

---  
  
The flight returning to LA was even longer than the departing one only a day before, the air no longer thick with anger and a layer of betrayal as it once had been. Instead, uneasiness lingered just over the surface of the air, of unresolved issues. Sadness. The team had departed from their side at the airport, waving with out much emotion - a sign of their general feeling towards their temporary CIA bosses. They were off to the command center just over the border on safer ground, ready to take on their next challenge in the South American heat. Mitchell remained in departing agents' care, silent for the entire flight, not wishing to tempt the coiled snake that was Michael Vaughn.   
  
He sat in an old seat across from the bound Mitchell, feet flat on the floor, arms resting just over a gun settled in his lap. His green eyes sat just above the prisoner's shoulder, but did not sit flat. They flickered just as his face did every so often as his mind relieved the words Mitchell had spat, his once childlike mind once again creating horrid scenarios of his father's last weeks. Resolve, as it had come, was short-lived, his mind once again slipping to where it should not be.   
  
And once again, the key to his very salvation was in the hands of the very one who caused his torment.   
  
Sydney felt the world wasn't fair.   
  
Vaughn also felt the world wasn't fair, but he did feel it was a bit fairer to him than to Sydney.   
  
"You okay?" Sydney finally approached him, the golden beaches of LA visible through the small porthole window. He turned to her, his neck cracking from the sudden movement. He rubbed the back of it absentmindedly, giving her a sheepish grin.   
  
"Fine, yeah, why wouldn't I be?" he asked. "You okay?" She shrugged, annoyed.   
  
"You've been staring at the wall for the entire flight with a gun on your lap," she replied, her tone slightly accusatorial.   
  
"I'm guarding the prisoner," he replied nonchalantly.   
  
"He's bound and we're in a plane, Vaughn. Where do you think he's going to go?" she asked, smiling. His eyes swept over to her subconsciously, working out the kink in his neck. She gave him a half-smile, her eyes concerned, confused.   
  
"He wasn't guarding me," Mitchell finally spoke up, shifting as the plane began it's decent. His shoulders hunched over a bit, his head straining to stay straight, muscles defined as he looked directly at the pair seated across from him. Cold, blazing eyes, full of half-truths and deceit. He rubbed the side of a sleeping leg, his anxiety and dislike of flying clear through his choppy, hesitant mannerisms. Sydney was correct in her statement, Mitchell was certainly uncomfortable being bound to a seat in the aircraft - attacking his captors and jumping out of the plane would be a stretch. Men were known to do things they normally wouldn't do in life or death situations, and yet Mitchell didn't seem to be one.   
  
That, or he *wanted* to get caught, to be brought back to LA.   
  
What kind of deal had Sloane made with this man that would cause him to willingly walk back into the hornet's nest after all these years of running from them? It didn't make sense.   
  
Sydney stared into Mitchell's eyes, praying the answers to her internal inquiry could be found somewhere inside them. She frowned, looking closer. She could have sworn she saw something.   
  
Mitchell closed his eyes and sighed. Sydney looked away.   
  
"I'm sure he wasn't even looking at me the entire time," Mitchell continued. Vaughn's grip on the gun in his lap tightened. "He was thinking."  
  
"Thinking," Sydney retorted somewhat skeptically. Mitchell nodded, opening his mouth to continue his statement, his eyes a hazy mix of trouble she had seen on men numerous times in her line of work. "All right," she continued, leaning forward. "I'll bite. About what?"  
  
"What I said, who I am, ways to off me and not get caught. Things like these often run through the heads of those who meet men like me."  
  
"People's lives were ruined because of what you did, you selfish prick," Vaughn suddenly said, his grip on the gun before him tightening unconsciously. His temper was raised now, his posture rigid and sharp. Sydney felt she'd be cut if she brushed against him.   
  
"No one could see the full consequences of their actions back then. You look at me with the luxury of hindsight."  
  
"Couldn't see the consequences of your actions? Damn it, you basically handed them all over to her!" Vaughn yelled, his voice bouncing off the walls of the small plane. Sydney moved in a hand to comfort him - acting on the principal that mothers could calm their children with a mere touch filled with calmness - but he shoved her hand off his shoulder harshly, moving with more strength than he knew. Her hand flew back at her, almost impaling itself on her rapidly angering face.   
  
"Her? I did not. I was looking out for myself. Self-preservation is - "  
  
"You ruined lives! More than you can count! I knew - I knew some of the others your - " He stopped mid-sentence. For all they knew, he'd come to his senses, realized that there was no use in yelling at a man who did not see the error in his ways. He seemed to relax.   
  
Sydney's arm came out too late, brushing against the edge of his sleeve as he jumped up from his seat, gun held firmly in his hand. He moved like a coiled snake, suddenly upon Mitchell with no warning, the gun pressed firmly into his neck.   
  
"I should kill you right now," Vaughn hissed, his anger taking over. Normally stoic, controlled, whenever it came to issues of his father the control left as fast as a warm Indian breeze at the end of summer. It was his catalyst, and Mitchell knew exactly what to say to spark this buried temper.   
  
But why?  
  
Sydney struggled with this for a second. Why, when seated and bound on an airplane, would he continue to taunt Vaughn into this state? Even back at the house he had been bating the man, using everything in his power to provoke the worst in her partner. It wasn't a smart move, for a man in his position, and as someone who had, at one time, held the same job, he knew this. So why?   
  
She was missing something, something Vaughn would have been able to recognize if he weren't so - angry!   
  
Sydney shot out of her seat, slender yet muscular arms wrapping themselves around his torso, pulling him up from his position over Mitchell. She'd always thought she were the stronger of the two, always thought she could take him if need be. But as she struggled to move him, as he stayed stationary, she feared for a moment that she would be the loser, only for a bit, if she were forced to fight him. Detachment from her intended victims helped her fight more efficiently. How would love factor into that equation?   
  
"Don't make me hurt you," she said, leaning into him. His eyes widened with the sound of her voice, knocking him momentarily off balance. The pair fell to the ground, the gun sliding out of sight and out of reach.   
  
"You'd really hurt me?" Vaughn asked, sitting against a seat. Sydney laughed and pulled him to his feet.   
  
"I'd kick your ass."  
  
It was only then that she noticed Mitchell's nervousness, personified by his wide eyes and shaking manor.   
  
If only she could calm Vaughn down, she might figure this out.   
  
::  
  
Home.   
  
Tired beyond belief, Sydney collapsed on her couch, letting out a large sigh as she did so. Brown hair fanned around her as if she were posing for some kind of photo shoot; she looked absolutely exhausted. Kicking her shoes off the side of the couch, she turned onto her side and dug through her purse for the bottle of water stowed in there and took a drink.   
  
Food.   
  
She hadn't even noticed her stomach growling all the way back from the airport, where Mitchell had been taken into formal custody and Vaughn had followed along, wanted for some reason by Kendall. She was promptly sent home for some rest and a day off for all her work in Colombia.   
  
She was so spoiled.   
  
Sighing, she let an arm flop over her eyes and groaned aloud. Food meant she'd have to get up from her nice comfortable position on the couch and move around to get something edible in the house - she seriously doubted that, though, since it was just Will alone in the house for the last few days, and he lived on take-out when he remembered to eat. She was just about to deal with it and get up when Will's voice floated down to her from over the back of the couch.   
  
"I thought I heard you. You will not believe the day I've had," he smiled, clear blue eyes grinning from behind his glasses. He quickly rounded the couch and fell next to her in the space she'd cleared by shifting. "Well, okay, so maybe yours was a bit more unbelievable, but mine was strange still."  
  
"Okay," she said, smiling a bit, "spill."  
  
"Right. Now I feel like this is a competition of some kind."  
  
"If it were, do you really think you'd win?"  
  
"You have a point there. Okay, so, anyway, I was just working and then - oh, wait, Marshall asked me to give you something. He was going on about how he couldn't just give it to you because of something he said or - whatever. I didn't really understand him."  
  
"What did he ask you to give me, Will," she asked evenly. Will grinned and hit a hand to his forehead as he rose, trotting off to his room to retrieve the folder he'd been reading over the entire day.   
  
Sydney sighed, realizing she wasn't bound to get much rest now, and decided food would still be a great idea. By the time Will returned with the file folder, complete with pieces of notes stuffed inside, she was already halfway through the process of filling a bowl of ice cream, licking her fingers for the third time. Her stomach grumbled louder.   
  
"Ice cream. You sure that's the best thing to eat when you're hungry?"  
  
"Have a better idea?" she retorted, spinning around him to put the ice cream away.   
  
"Not at all," he said, grabbing it from her before she had the chance to deposit it in the freezer. She gave him a mock pouting face and returned to her treat of a meal, taking a bit before asking him about the file. She'd earned that much at least. "So anyway, he gave me this file to give to you and, well, I'm a bit curious."  
  
"Right," she said simply, leaning against the counter as she ate. He continued to get himself some, speaking to her as he did so.   
  
"So I opened the file and he had all these old computer specs in there. You know, stuff from the 60's and 70's. I mean, these things were old and big," he gestured with his hands here, "Nothing like what we have now. Which got me to thinking."  
  
"This is what you spent your afternoon on?" Sydney asked, raising an eyebrow.   
  
"Yeah," he breathed, pausing to put away the now half-melted carton of ice cream. "Anyway, I read over Marshall's notes and such - okay, so I wasn't cleared for it, but Weiss was really helpful - "  
  
Sydney almost spit out her ice cream. "Weiss? Weiss was helping you?"  
  
"Did I just get someone in trouble?"   
  
"No, no, it's justlisten, Will, about that file, we don't want - "  
  
"Vaughn to find out. I know, I talked to Weiss. He told me about this whole computer/disk thing. Well, I was sitting and looking through the files and, Syd, it doesn't make sense."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Disks then didn't work how they do now. You couldn't really put information on them, just retrieve it. And they didn't start up like now. So, I don't know, it just feels like we're not being told the whole story."  
  
"Well, we have a man in custody now that might be able to help fill in these holes," she sighed, suddenly loosing interest in her sweet treat. Will shook his head, his right hand coming free from his bowl to move while he spoke.   
  
"That's just it, Syd. I don't think he can."  
  
"What?"   
  
"Listen, I spent all afternoon going through everything the Agency has on the machines that were around then - the stuff we're dealing with is years ahead of it's time," he explained, closing the distance between them, his blue eyes on fire, fueled by the knowledge he held.   
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"We had to of supplied whoever had this machine - this computer with, well, it."  
  
"It's ours," Sydney stated, the bottom falling from her stomach.  
  
Ours.  
  
William Vaughn and that team had been chasing after 'stolen' property? No - the CIA had never had anything stolen, instead, they secretly gave things without the knowledge of anyone else. Covert exchanges.   
  
So why did the give the KGB computers in the 1970's?  
  
"Will, don't say anything about this, okay? Not until you hear from me," Sydney stressed. Will nodded somewhat hesitantly, a move she caught, her chocolate brown eyes widening.   
  
"Weiss was working with me. He could have said something to anyon - "  
  
"Call him. Find out, just give me time!"  
  
::  
  
"I don't believe you're being entirely honest with me, Irina," Sloane commented. He sat in the middle of his large concrete office, the darkened lighting reflecting what it could from the slab of black that served as his desktop. There was no warmth in this room, no touch of personality, just darkness and illusion - the true tools of the trade. He sat like a king's aide upon the throne when left alone in the castle, a sense of achievement lying under the restlessness that came with the possibility of being caught.   
  
Devoid of natural light, of smell, of sound, the room seemed hardly natural, throwing his visitors off slightly as they sat in one of his chairs, facing him as he spoke.  
  
Irina simply matched his gaze.   
  
"In fact," he continued, drawing out his words just as she did on occasion. And while she did so for lack of complete fluency, he let the words settle in his companion's mind as a heavy stake falls in their stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. "I believe you're leading me astray so you can conduct your own operation."  
  
"Arvin - "  
  
"I was under the impression that when I extracted you, we entered an equal partnership. Was I mistaken?" he spoke, finishing before she'd be given the opportunity to reply.   
  
She smiled that winning smile that had won over Jack Bristow's frozen heart all those years ago, and leaned forward in her chair.   
  
"Of course not. I have just been collecting information. You're welcome to examine it yourself if you'd like."  
  
Sloane narrowed his eyes at her. What was she up to?  
  
::  
  
"You shouldn't have called me here. You know that with all that's been going on *any* meetings outside the office are dangerous."  
  
Sydney was used to the lecture her father gave the moment he exited his sleek black car, the door closing but making little sound. He swept around it, meeting her on the other side, hidden between the two vehicles and thankful for once that his only child drove an SUV.   
  
"Here," she said first, dispensing with the pleasantries her father would only be annoyed to hear. "Marshall did some more research."  
  
Jack took the folder nonchalantly, his expression sour as he opened the folder and started flipping through the pages. He paused, catching sight of Will's hurried scrawl, a lasting remnant of his reporting days, his brown eyes flickering up to read his daughter's expression.   
  
"What were we doing giving the KGB advanced computers?"   
  
Jack sighed, weighing his options. She was most likely to find out on her own, and while in the past he withheld information from her so she would do precisely that, her skills were honed to the point in which he'd hear back from her in accusatory tones within the hour (minus the time it took to return to the office).   
  
"Sydney, you have to understand how things were back then," he said first, testing the waters of the conversation. She simply looked back at him, eyes impassive, arms crossed. "Agents disappeared left and right; black market deals were made to get them back."  
  
"At what cost? Agents you saved lived while others died," she responded. "Dad, we gave them exactly what we're looking for! Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?"  
  
"You're taking this out of context. How they used what we gave them was beyond our control."  
  
"Beyond our control? We shouldn't have given it to them in the first place!"  
  
"I admit, we did make some mistakes in the past, but no one could foresee this."  
  
"William Vaughn did."  
  
Jack was caught off guard. "What?"  
  
"Think about it. Look at the timelines. He was gone when he found out about the computer. How could he have given Vaughn the information before going out into the field if he hadn't seen this coming?" she asked.   
  
"You have a flare for the dramatic, Sydney. Are you accusing William Vaughn of being affiliated with the KGB?" Jack asked of her. She looked off into the distance beyond his shoulder, her eyes moist.   
  
"I can't explain it. There's this hole, we're missing something."  
  
"Sydney, you have to be careful with this. You can't go around accusing a dead patriot like Vaughn with something like this."  
  
"I know!"  
  
Jack's mouth opened as he was ready to reply when his phone rang. Grumbling, he answered it, his face darkening as he listened to what the person on the other end had to say. He hung up without so little as a goodbye and felt a pang of pity for his daughter.   
  
"What was it?" she inquired.   
  
"Vaughn. It appears that after his little display on the airplane." Sydney winced at this, not all that surprised on how quick the word of Vaughn's loss of control had spread through the Joint Operations Center. "That Kendall has deemed him unfit to carry this disk's location. He's undergoing regression therapy."  
  
The blood drained from Sydney's face. "Don't they know how dangerous that is?! What if they say - Irina *warned* them against doing - "  
  
"But Irina is gone, now. Kendall will do whatever he sees as necessary to get this all behind us, and it appears that Vaughn's sanity is at the bottom of his list." 


	13. Catalyst Part B

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter Four: Catalyst [Part B]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation.   
  


* * *

  
  


_You can't refuse something like this._  
  
Vaughn wished for nothing more than his suit coat to insulate him against the cold of the white room he now sat in. He shivered slightly, his skin still recovering from the warm caresses of the sun it found down in Colombia. At least, he reflected cynically, I managed to catch some sleep before being called in again.   
  
He had refused, at first, when Kendall had strode up to him, face red with anger after speaking with their newest aquision for the glass cell, telling him it was time he went under the watchful eye of the regression therapist back at their home offices. He'd refused with every reason and excuse in the book, detailing how it might not be in his best interest to have someone else running around up there when they didn't know all that had been done.   
  
Kendall had almost laughed in his face.   
  
Vaughn had the distinct impression that Kendall was not a believer, and was simply doing this to rule Vaughn out and get on with this so called investigation.   
  
He felt like a prisoner here, not even able to rub his arms for extra warmth, to itch his nose, nothing. Bound and forced to listen to this doctor as she started explaining things in an even, calming voice. God, he didn't want to be doing this!  
  
"Agent Vaughn, I'm going to count back from 10 slowly, at the end of which you'll find yourself back where this all started. 10, 9, 8…"  
  
Her voice floated away after he closed his eyes. Was it possible to remove himself from the situation completely, to avoid her prompting and image placement and wander off into some unexplored region of his mind instead? Wait – that's where they wanted him to go.   
  
"Where are you?" The voice wasn't outside, as he'd expected it to be, but inside his mind. Were they really words, or was he just expecting them to be?   
  
He opened his eyes.   
  
Instead of seeing the white room and the therapist staring back at him, bewildered by his awesome ability to overcome her hypnosis and make a mockery of her profession, he found himself standing on the front lawn of his childhood home, the sun warm above him. He smiled, relieved to no longer being frozen and looked up to the sun, his eyes slipping closed for a moment. He half-expected this all to disappear as soon as he reopened them, like a child playing a game would. But this was no game, and he soon caught sight of his father playing with his 8-year-old self.   
  
He suddenly realized how alike his father he was now in life. How he wore the same crisp suits and shined shoes, the same pressed shirts and loosened ties. And while the vision of his father smiled and bent down to catch his running son, Vaughn could now see the creases near his eyes and upon his forehead from worry, his eyes always moving to make sure he was indeed safe. His younger self ran and jumped up into his father's arms, a laugh falling from his lips not heard soon after this moment, a sound retired by sadness.   
  
His father held him close, his head resting on his son's shoulder as the worries of the days away melted away. It was so clear to Vaughn at that moment that his father lived for his family, did was he did for his family, even died for them. To keep them safe.   
  
He quickly turned his head as the front door opened and his mother stepped out onto the porch with the typical cooking utensil in her hand, a gentile expression covering her sharp French features as she caught sight of her husband out on the lawn. Her sleek shoes, bought last week in Paris, clicked against the walk as she almost ran up to meet him. Vaughn's younger self was released as his father stood and kissed his mother, then rushed in to hug them both around the legs.   
  
And standing off to the side, unseen by any, was the older Vaughn, the tormented, broken Vaughn who had only seemed to get through life with these memories and stories of his father's nobility and love. College was simply a stepping-stone to where he was now, a journey rushed so that he could find the end.   
  
He wondered briefly what his profession would be if his father had lived. Would he still be a spy, like the father he idolized so much, or would he found a different calling in life?  
  
"Where are you?" the words asked again, and this time, overcome by a sad sense of nostalgia, he could do nothing but answer.   
  
"In the front yard," he replied, stepping across the grass as he spoke. His steps were hurried – if he moved fast enough, could he hug them too?   
  
His breath quickened as he moved, almost catching in his chest when the family moved apart, lead hand by hand into the warm house, the aroma of a delicious dinner drifting out the front door. He moved faster, shoes making no noise as they moved up the steps.   
  
And then something he didn't expect occurred.   
  
The image of his father turned to him, hand on the doorknob, and smiled up at him as if he could see him. But this was a memory, not a movie. Had he crafted it into his own design so that this one meeting with his father could occur?   
  
Suddeny, he was jerked violently from this memory, head still spinning as he re-entered the white room, the shocked face of the doctor affirming his fears that something adverse had happened. He blinked, a hand free to come up to rub his eyes; he was only half surprised to find moisture under his lashes. Vaughn quickly rubbed it away, a tired sigh escaping his lips.   
  
"Are you alright, Agent?" the doctor asked, her question rushed, her tone surprised and worried. He looked up at her. Of course he was fine – what had happened?   
  
"Fine, fine. What – what happened?" he asked, stretching. The doctor shook her head.   
  
"I don't know. Do you? One moment you were there – you're supposed to progress out of that state, not jump from one to another. Are you sure nothing happened? What was the last thing you saw?" she pelted him with the questions, firing one right after another, not giving him time to answer in between.   
  
"My father. He, he turned to look right at me. I swear he could see me," he muttered, sitting up in the chair. She didn't make a move to stop him, so he stood, and crossed the room for his suit coat. He put it on, but the cold feeling did not go dissapear, as he'd hoped it would.   
  
"Saw you? Maybe you were yourself and he was looking at you in the memory," she suggested, swiveling in her chair to face him as he leaned against the wall across from her.   
  
"No, it wasn't like that," he retorted, arms up almost hugging himself. She shook her head, eyes cast at the floor.   
  
"That's all for today, Agent," she said to him finally, standing. "I'll report this to Director Kendall. You're free to go."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"What *happened*? Why was I pulled like that? I swear it gave me whiplash."  
  
She sighed and paused filling out some papers on her clipboard. "I have no idea what's going on up there," she supplied, motioning to his head with her pen, "but whatever it is, I'm not ready to mess with it. Let's see what we can find out before we muck around."  
  
_Well, that was reassuring._ He rubbed his arms as he ducked out of the room, finding the hallway warmer than the room he just exited. Maybe they had to keep it cold for the equipment, or something like that; he didn't care anymore. His head pounded with a tremendous headache, every movement intensifying the pain.   
  
Just as he was about to round the corner into his dust-collecting office and find solace from his headache, he heard his name being called.   
  
"Vaughn! Oh my God, Vaughn, are you okay?" Sydney came running down the hallway, brown hair tied up into a pony tail bouncing as she did. She came to a halt just before him, a hand coming up to brush his face. He moved it away just in time, before it was seen by anyone passing by, and pulled her into his office, shutting the door behind them.   
  
"I'm fine," he sighed, rummaging through his drawers for some aspirin. "Just – a headache."  
  
"Did you go to regression?"  
  
"Yeah. Just finished," Vaughn replied. He fell into his desk chair and swallowed the pills dry, a trick he'd learned during those years in India when he couldn't find water and got a headache from the intense heat. Leaning back in his high back chair, he let his eyes slip closed and a moan escape his lips.   
  
"Vaughn, what happened?" Sydney asked softly, rounding the desk and sitting on the edge across from him. He pulled his head up from the chair back and leaned his chin on her knees appearing child-like staring up at her, a frown crossing his features.   
  
"No one likes to relive that stuff, Syd," he confessed. She nodded, a hand petting the top of his head as he closed his eyes and relaxed against her. She knew from experience what he was speaking about, how reliving the past was something man wasn't supposed to do. "I saw my father again, before he died, how happy everything was," he murmured. "I got pulled out right when he was looking at me. Not a memory, but me."  
  
Wait. "Pulled out?"  
  
"Yeah." He reopened his eyes. "Why?"  
  
She looked away, her eyes focused on a frame on the wall behind the desk. A solitary degree hung there, out of view of any visitors if he were sitting at his desk. She narrowed her eyes, confused. Most men, and professional women for that matter, hung their degrees and accolades in a prominent place as a way of bragging to all those who entered, showing where they had gone as some kind of badge of worth. And yet, there was his, almost hidden behind an ever growing pile of files and thick manuals, the bottom of the frame completely gone.   
  
Means to an end?   
  
"I'm not surprised you have a headache," she decided to answer cryptically, letting her gaze fall back to him. She laughed a bit at his face that looked like one of a child asking his mother for something. Green eyes tilted to the ceiling, chin balanced on her bare knees; she couldn't help but smile at him as his face moved into a frown as he assessed his headache.   
  
"Still there, just…stop talking so loud," he reported.   
  
"If I do, I won't even be able to hear myself talk. C'mon, you shouldn't be here with that headache – and I wasn't even pulled out!" He looked at her quizzically as she pulled him to his feet, wondering where her tangent came from. "Never mind," she said, catching his look. "Just – get some sleep and it should go away."  
  
Sydney ushered him to the door, almost pushing him out of it –   
  
- and right into Weiss.   
  
"You look like hell, man," he commented. "Anyway, Kendall wants you at JTF ASAP. They're having some problems with Mitchell."  
  
"That can wait. He just had his regression," Sydney told him. Weiss held up his hands in surrender.   
  
"Hey now, don't shoot the messenger."  
  
"What's the problem?" Vaughn asked sleepily, a hand rubbing his forehead.   
  
"He won't talk to anyone but you."  
  
::  
  
"I believe you have some information for me."  
  
"You know I hate meeting out in the open like this." His companion, a shaking, jittery man of Russian descent, glanced nervously around him, glad for the complete lack of people.   
  
"It's secure as long as you provide yourself useful," Jack Bristow commented, noticing the man's movements. His eyes bore into his contact as he spoke, causing the man no longer feel safe in this supposedly secure solitude.   
  
"Alksandr Zuravlev canceled a US Labor dinner invitation for tomorrow night claiming relative were in town and wished to see him before they left," the contact explained, eyes scanning for anyone that might be around to back Jack up in the event that he wasn't helpful. It annoyed Jack that the man usually had no faith in his own information, an annoyance that reminded him of countless other things he could be doing at the moment instead of this.   
  
"I don't understand how this is of any worth to me," he remarked offhand. The contact's jittering intensified, and just as Jack expected, he shoved his hands into his pockets.   
  
"Zuravlev has no family; the US Labor union is big ally, no men he would just 'blow off' as you say."  
  
"And you suspect that whatever occurs in this meeting will be of use to me?"  
  
"I know so!" He was pleading now, so sure his information was worth this meeting. "Listen, Zuravlev has his hands in everything. He would only not attend this meeting if it were something big." He stopped and looked at Jack's face – he was loosing. Money was worth nothing if you were dead, and the informant pulled out the last bit of information he had, his hopes of selling it to agencies across the ocean crushed. "I heard what the meeting was going to be about."  
  
"And?"  
  
"A computer. Some kind of computer that his 'relatives' are looking for," the informant said. Jack's eyes widened just a bit. "I see I have done good."  
  
"This meeting never happened." The CIA agent quickly got into his car and drove off, leaving his contact alone at the top of the dirty hill. He smiled and rubbed his hands together, thankful to be alive another day.   
  
::  
  
He'd called the meeting as soon as he could, tasking a junior agent to do some quick research, something to back up the informant's claims. The drive back to the JTF was terse and worrisome at the least, his mind mulling over the several possibilities of what this move could mean. Irina knew more than any of them – he was sure of this even before her escape. But no matter how hard he tried, she'd never budge, her only input that of not saying what could be the end of Agent Vaughn. And while he knew in his heart that she was saying that to protect her child's happiness (as was he, in every move he made), he felt it selfish of her to with hold information.   
  
Now she was working off her knowledge without consulting them, or him. He didn't know if he could trust her, if these new movements of hers were to benefit the young agent and her daughter or if she were working from the other side, hoping that, now that she knew where to find him, she could use the information for her own devices.   
  
The cynical side of his mind that had long ago taken over felt the second scenario was the proper one.   
  
At no cost could he allow Irina to take possession of this computer or any information this Russian businessman was ready to provide her. They just had to get there first.   
  
As he slid into an empty parking space just outside the JTF, his cell rang. "What?"  
  
"I've found the guest list for a US Labor Department/ABC Volgograd dinner, sir, and Mr. Zuravlev is not on it."  
  
He hung up.   
  
Damn.  



	14. Catalyst Part C

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter Four: Catalyst [Part C]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation.   


* * *

  


"They say you wanted to speak with me." Headache still pounding despite large doses of painkillers, Michael Vaughn pulled a chair up from the far side of the cell and placed it before Mitchell, sitting properly in it while he awaited the prisoner's response.  
  
"I don't suppose they allow weapons in here?" he asked somewhat hesitantly, leaning against the wall behind the cement slab that served as a cot. Vaughn laughed and moved aside his coat to reveal his holster, something he'd come to wear everywhere he went now. It gave him a sense of control he'd lost in the last few months, the illusion of a wish he held onto with all his might.   
  
Mitchell sucked in a harsh breath and retreated farther against the wall.   
  
"Now, what did you want to say?" Vaughn asked, eyebrows raised. He was annoyed, he was aching, and he wanted to go home. There was no conceivable reason why Mitchell would only speak to him, unless he wished to torture him further.   
  
Mitchell sighed. "Information, of course. If it will warrant my release."  
  
"Get real. You willingly betrayed CIA officers, not to mention engaged in illegal activities after faking your death…" He trailed off, astounded he would ask for such a thing. It was – unthinkable. No, he'd had a chance to chat with Kendall before coming in here, and after getting through the expected barrage of explenatories over the failed regression attempt, had learned that after they finished with Mitchell here, he would be sent to Langley for an intensive debrief and ultimately imprisonment for the rest of his time on this Earth. Furthermore, his home and assets were to be liquidated, and his home used for undercover sting operations inside Colombia.   
  
Vaughn had been released to speak to Mitchell a short time later with the order for another regression looming over his head. It was clearly apparent that the FBI transplant director had not heeded Dr. Kerr's warnings about a second attempt, displaying a complete disregard for his subordinates. Add that to the pounding headache he had and this uncooperative prisoner, and it could be said that Vaughn was no longer having a good day.  
  
"I'm sure we can negotiate a trade of some kind. My information for my freedom."  
  
"I don't think we can agree to that," Vaughn retorted, his voice rising. Mitchell held up his hands.   
  
"Surely, you can do *something*."  
  
"Even if I could, I wouldn't help scum like you. Tell me what you know and I might reconsider breaking your face right now."  
  
"Under all these eyes?" Mitchell asked. Vaughn nodded, the pressure in his head building. _Not now. Please, not now. _  
  
"Do you think they'd hesitate to help me?" he spit at the man, the traitor. "After what you've done? Most men here would die before betraying a partner or a team."  
  
"Most men were not faced with my situation," Mitchell simply stated, crossing his arms.   
  
"And what was your situation?"  
  
The prisoner shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position on the slab, a nervous twitch to cover his unease with the situation. Vaughn felt no sympathy for the man – it was his own fault he was sitting here across from a man who had threatened to kill him once already.   
  
"Do or die."  
  
"Oh, well, I'm just overwhelmed by your sense of loyalty," Vaughn remarked offhand. Mitchell scoffed and shook his head.   
  
"It's obvious you've never been in a situation of th – "  
  
Vaughn interrupted, his temper flaring. A finger was pointed at Mitchell, almost jabbing him as if it were a sword. "No, I have been in a situation like that. And you know what? I didn't just leave my teammates to die just so I could get out of there. I did everything in my power to get them out. *That* is what do or die is, Mr. Mitchell. Not your skewed version."  
  
"But what if you *would* die, attempting to save your teammates. And not only you, but your family as well?"  
  
That stopped Vaughn in his tracks. He hid it well, like most of his emotions, his mind wrapping itself around the question. Yes, if it were his life on the line, he would have no apprehensions about sacrificing himself to save his team. The death of another when it could have been avoided, when *he* could have stopped it, never settled well in his stomach. But his family? How could he sacrifice a broken family for men who had more? Selfish as it may sound, he'd already had one loss while most had none. Could he leave his team to save his mother?  
  
Would she want him to?  
  
"She wouldn't want her life from that blood."  
  
"But you would," Mitchell replied. "I can see it. You say one thing but would do another. How can you question my loyalty when you are the same way? I simply voice my opinions instead of hide behind some outdated CIA doctrine."   
  
"Outdated?" Vaughn asked. "You think…wait, you're saying the loyalty to your team, to your country, that is addressed by the CIA doctrine is _outdated_?"  
  
"We live in a new world. That was written and addressed in a nicer time. This was the cold war, Michael, when there was no black and white."  
  
"There never was," Vaughn replied, brushing Mitchell's use of his first name away dismissively. It sounded so impersonal and generic, as if he could insert any name there and it would have the same meaning. He was attempting to become personal, to launch another attack against him with his memories, to catch him off-guard.   
  
But Vaughn's emotions were locked away, the key lost somewhere in time. And while from time to time the latch would break and they would pour out like water from a broken damn, he quickly repaired and closed them away, hoping this time, the latch was strong enough.   
  
"Can you get me a piece of paper and a pen?" Vaughn looked up sharply, surprised. "I can tell you where it is. It's the least I owe to your mother."  
  
Vaughn swung a right hook before leaving the cell.   
  
::  
  
"I don't understand. If we know where the computer is, then why are we wasting our time with Mom?" Sydney Bristow stood tall and definent, as always, looking amazingly sophisticated in her long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans. It was some kind of genetic trait; it had to be, for her to look so wonderful no matter what she wore. And while most people in the offices would be sent home, unable to pull off the look, she flew by with flying colors, no one even noticing her dressed-down approach.   
  
"Do you really trust this Mitchell?" Kendall asked, raising a characteristic eyebrow. With one arm across his chest and the other resting on his chin, he looked ever bit the analyst he had started this life as. Sydney sighed and let her head drop just a bit.   
  
"It doesn't matter. This is a chance we have to take!" she almost yelled. "I'm not going to sit here and wait for Sloane or Irina to come for Vaughn. We have to do something *now*."  
  
"I understand your concern, Agent Bristow, but we – "  
  
"No you don't! You put him under regression when you *knew* how dangerous that could be – "  
  
"There is information he holds that we need in order to use this computer! And we have no idea how to re – "  
  
"If you would only listen to what Irina said. The code is in the journal. We just have to say that and we'll have it."  
  
"But Agent Vaughn, if you remember, disposed of the journal four months ago!" Kendall's voice boomed throughout the conference room, all the heads in the room shooting up to watch the two officers, wondering who would make the next move. It was Jack who did, moving in on them from the other side of the room with his voice.   
  
"Do we really want more people to have that information?" he pondered out loud. Sydney cast him a murderous look, her brown eyes matching his for that one moment. "If we don't do anything, we reduce the chances that Sloane can use it."  
  
"But that puts the burden all on one person," Marcus Dixon spoke up calmly from where he sat at the U-shaped table.   
  
Kendall rubbed his forehead, his eyes widening unconsciously. Issues of morality and ethics had never been his strong point. A career man to the core, Kendall had done what needed to be done before even considering the human aspects of the task. It was one of the admirable yet questionable attributes of his personality that landed him his position on the investigatory board that had brought him to his current situation. Dixon's point, while a valid one, had little impact on him. He was not going to be swayed.   
  
"We have received some preliminary information from Langly," he said to the group. "I don't know about you, but leaving this location with as few people as possible seems like a pretty good idea."  
  
"We know Sloane wants this information! I can't see how you can – "  
  
"Bait," Vaughn interrupted Sydney, speaking up for the first time since presenting Mitchell's contribution to their investigation. "But it doesn't make any sense," he continued, now thinking out loud. He leaned forward, his arms resting on the table top. "Mitchell and Irina's information contradicts each other."  
  
"Unless she is going after something else," Jack rose.   
  
"But what?" the younger agent retorted.   
  
"That's what you're going to find out. Agent Bristow, take Dixon and find out what Derevko is up to in Russia. Agent Vaughn, you and Agent Weiss find out if Mitchell is telling the truth."  
  
"Sounds reasonable," Jack replied, but the tone of his voice seemed to suggest otherwise. It was easy to suspect such a slippery man of ulterior motives, an image he did nothing to change.   
  
Kendall nodded to him and turned to Vaughn, shooting a pointed look, one to launch the subordinate from his seat and send him off to find his magic-trick performing partner. He didn't stay to see Vaughn's sympathetic and reassuring glance in Sydney's direction, more did he wish to witness her worried and masked reply. To him, there was a time and a place for all of that, and a CIA briefing room was neither.   
  
//  
  
"Dude, we're going to have a ton of fun. Think of the food – you know how much I love Chinese food," Weiss babbled, yo-yo rolling up and down next to him in perfect sync with his own movements. Their brisk pace, learned after years of last minute meetings and ASAP information exchanges, provided no obstacle for the self-taught yo-yo master, for even as Vaughn sped up in some kind of insanity-born experiment, the man-yo-yo symmetry never suffered.   
  
"We're going on a mission to Hong Kong and all you can think of is food?" he asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Weiss suddenly clapped his hands together, the moment when people would jump with surprise punctuated with nothingness as these trained professionals continued on with their tasks, having no time to reply.   
  
"We should go visit Apple!" he exclaimed. Vaughn groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes, missing the spectacle that was Weiss collecting up his yo-yo, crouching to the ground at one point to catch it before it escaped him.   
  
"Why is it you have to bring up my past girlfriends?" he breathed. Weiss shrugged as he untangled the yo-yo's string.   
  
"Because it's more interesting than bringing up mine. Plus, you have to admit, Apple was pretty cool," Weiss commented.   
  
"For a Communist Chinese spy, yes, she was nice and interesting," Vaughn retorted.   
  
"You know, for a guy who swore he'd never mix romance and the job, you really have had a lot of work-related girlfriends, present one included."  
  
"You *remember* that?" Vaughn asked incredulously, turning to face his friend.  
  
Weiss nodded. "Yeah. Of course. But I have a good feeling about this one. Like, well, she won't betray you at the end and say she was only doing her job."  
  
"Why, thanks," Vaughn deadpanned.   
  
"Really. We should look up Apple. She's fun. I'm sure she can find me a girl."  
  
"Is that all you think about?"  
  
"Pretty much," Weiss replied. "Hey, don't look at me like that – you would be too, if you didn't have one." Vaughn simply gave him a look, a look that isn't the easiest to describe, but it was along the lines of friendship mixed with a homicidal urge that would soon pass.   
  
It did pass, fortunately for Weiss, as Vaughn wrenched the door to a smaller, lesser-used conference room and walked in, Weiss on his coat tails. The toy was tucked deep within his suit coat's pocket, far away from prying administrative eyes. Kendall sat at one end of the wood veneered table, a folder in front of him. His faced played into that disappointed look, not because of the somewhat late arrival of his agents (as they thought that was the cause, having lost time somewhere between Chinese food and old girlfriends), but because of the contents of said folder.   
  
He gave them a despondent look and motioned for them to sit.   
  
"I just got this," he held the folder up, "from Langley five minutes ago."  
  
"Not to sound pushy or anything, but what is it?" Weiss voiced.   
  
"Mitchell's file."  
  
"I thought we had that already," Vaughn mused, eyes narrowing.   
  
"We did. Unfortunately, we didn't have all the information," Kendall said, opening the file. "According to this, the CIA was aware of Mitchell's faked death. In fact, they used it to their advantage."  
  
"Wait – what?" Weiss asked. "They *knew* he'd faked his death?"  
  
"Mitchell was placed where he was to monitor those interested in this computer, and to report back to us whenever someone came inquiring about it," he explained. Vaughn reached over and took the open file from in front of him, and for once, the director put up no protest. Weiss and Vaughn, seated next to each other, read through the information as Kendall voiced it.   
  
"In 1976, when Mitchell was declared dead by the CIA, he was moved to Brazil to watch over a group of South American assassins looking to out the undercover agents in that region. Preliminary information said that the computer stores the names, locations, and operations of safe houses around the world. And while some have been added, some closed, well – "  
  
"No one would be safe," Vaughn breathed. "With the location of one, they could find all of them."  
  
"We're hoping that's the only damaging information on its hard drive, but yes, Agent Vaughn, you see the risk," Kendall replied.   
  
"So Mitchell goes to Brazil, reports back to the CIA the names and such of these South American assassins, and we go and pick them up?" Weiss summarized. "How do they do that without the connection back to Mitchell?"  
  
"He was moved. To Colombia, where he'd been for 20 years. As an elusive dealer, he was allowed the screen of security while keeping his secret. It was Mitchell who told us Sloane was meeting with him that afternoon, and gave us the intel to apprehend him. Unfortunately, Sloane left before the team arrived."  
  
It wasn't all that much as a surprise. The CIA was no stranger to plants of any kind, the use of a man known to betray his fellow officers a prime candidate for this type of deep operation. With the word out that he wasn't loyal to the CIA, in fact, that he would willingly betray them in order to monetarily profit, he became sought after by all kinds of underworld citizens looking for inside information on the CIA, their operations, and, most importantly, how to circumvent the agency as to continue their operations and deals without the eyes of the CIA waiting for them to mess up and get caught.   
  
"So why is he still in a cell?"  
  
"Security reasons. We have to re-insert him somewhere, and we can't do that if there are rumors that he was walking free in the CIA while here." Kendall pulled another file from the small end-table behind him, almost knocking over an empty glass as he did so. Vaughn stifled a laugh. It was clear as day that Kendall, despite all his rash last second decisions and orders in the field had never been a field agent himself, something Vaughn knew was despised by Jack Bristow. How could he make the correct decisions if he'd never been in the field himself?   
  
"According to his statement," Kendall continued, "the computer is stored in Kowloon, China at a club named for Wong Tai Sin Temple. Since the equipment is large, it's being stored in a sublevel dug during the second World War. Because of this, it shouldn't prove too difficult, even for you. This is a simple run and retrieve – go to Kowloon, get the computer, and get out of there. The Chinese government won't take kindly to a couple of CIA agents sniffing around their shadiest parts."  
  
Kendall tossed over the pair of matching folders and stood, unconsciously straightening his tie. "I trust this won't be too hard for you, Agents Vaughn and Weiss. Don't make me regret tasking it to you."  
  
As soon as he'd left the room, Weiss leaned back in his chair, showing off his chronic poor posture, and let out a sigh.   
  
"I can't wait to get some of that food. When do we leave?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning."  
  
"Time for the girl before that?" he asked. Vaughn shook his head.   
  
"She leaves in," he checked his watch, "an hour."  
  
Weiss leaned over and gave his friend a reassuring pat on the back. "Just look at the bright side – they'll have to give you two some time off sooner or later."  
  
"Yeah. I just wish it would be sooner rather than later."  


* * *

Reader Responces:  
  
Raina: Hehe. Me too. Except kinda not. Hehe  
OHM: You rock. I love you! *hug* Your reviews rock!  
Kate: *laughs* Well...I guess you got your answer with these last two chapters.  
Lindz: Wow. Thank you! I'm glad you've de-lurked!  



	15. Circe Part A

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter Six: Circe [Part A]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation.   
  
**Volgograd, Russia**  
Volgograd was a proud city.   
  
Created in the 16th century as a guard post for the crossroads settled in the south of the country, Tsaritsyn was named for the river that flowed through it, a 'Golden River'. It morphed through the centuries, bringing in foreigners, becoming one end of the first railroad in Russia, and finally, brought in investors from the west. In the late 1920's, the city became home to Russia's first tractor factory, an investment of Ford's that stands to this day.   
  
But the city of Volgograd is most famous for the battle of Stalingrad (as it was called in that day). Attacked by the Germans in World War II, the city became a playground of death and suffering as the city was almost completely destroyed, many buildings lying in ruin. But Volgograd came back from the ashes, near distruction not able to hold the city down. And in the coming years, the city saw innovation and business spring from shattered ruins.   
  
A proud city indeed.   
  
Currently named for the river who's banks it sits on, Volgograd is the longest city in it's motherland, an impressive 5 miles long while only being a few miles wide. It can be said it looks like a pencil from space, a long center of business and industry that has quickly re-carved a name for itself in the annuals of time.   
  
Alksandr Zhuravlev was expecting a quiet dinner that night, and meeting or no meeting, he was going to get what he wanted. As a titan of Volgograd, he was recognized wherever he went; a poor side effect of earlier business deals that had landed him on the side of a building, posters framing his face covering every space. But most establishments respected his desire for animosity, his favorite being Korona, a beautiful establishment serving Russo-European cuisine while being attached to a somewhat fashionable club of the same name located just off Chuikova Street.   
  
A perfect venue for a meeting that was not to take place.   
  
It was somewhat ironic that Zhuravlev had first considered going to a place called Irina, another popular eatery famous with the American crowd that came through the city on what seemed like a daily basis. His own sense of irony, while firmly developed, had swayed him from the small, hard to find restaurant and brought him to his current establishment, where the noise from the club leaked over into the restauraunt, making it hard to overhear conversations taking place at the adjacent tables.   
  
"Mr. Zhuravlev," came Irina Derevko's smoky voice from beyond his view. He turned, surprised, and wondered why he had not the flicker of recognition in his guards eyes as she approached from behind. But one look at her, dressed seductively in a tight, short cranberry dress, proved to be too much, the guard infatuated to the point of impairment. She had gifts of the flesh and certainly knew how to use them to her advantage.   
  
"Ahh, Irina. Please, call me Alks. Sit, sit," he greeted jovially, motioning for her to take a seat across from him. She complied, slowly crossing her legs before sliding them under the table. Zuravlev smiled, his face large and puffy with rosy red cheeks like that of a young child being caught in the act.   
  
Zuravlev wasn't exactly a thin man. In fact, he had been known to grow quiet large from his fatty diet, something he said was a byproduct of his luncheons and dinners with wealthy American investors. He had just come off a 6 month diet, the results of which had been published in the local newspaper, proclaiming that the diet was effective - he had lost over 50 pounds, his image cleaner (an improvement his publicist thanked God over, being that he no longer had the energy to retouch all his photos). Yet he was still large and intimidating, commanding with his mere presence.   
  
"Beedon bi khotyehtb ookhod hac? (can you please leave us?)" Zhuravlev asked of his guard, waving a dismissive had to him. He paused, hesitating, then turned a left, moving off into the club's entrance to the restaurant.   
  
"You speak Russian with your guard yet English with me?" Irina mused, leaning on her hand.   
  
"English is best if we do not want to be heard. Children these days, they do not know the importance of English in the world."  
  
"Lucky for us," Irina smiled. He had a mind on him, Zhuravlev, a mind for this life. A waitress came along, a smile plastered on her face most likely influenced by the drugs running through the club next door, a cheery disposition her employer enjoyed, no, tolerated. Children of Russia were not cheerful and gluttonous as those of America, a curse from their early days. They were strong, but not smiling. The over-excited waitress bounced as she placed a drink before both Zhuravlev and Irina, then spun on her heels and headed back towards the kitchens, most likely to speak with friends and neglect her duties.   
  
The perfect waitress, to be brief.   
  
"I took the liberty of ordering you a drink," he confessed, lifting his glass of clear alcohol to his lips. She followed, taking a lesson from the geishas of Gion, wetting her lips only and placing the glass back down. It gave the appearance of enjoying the intoxicating drink with the drinking partner while maintaining a level head. It placed her conversation partner at a slight disadvantage.   
  
"Now," he said, his voice raspy from the drink. "What is it you need to see me about?"  
  
"It has come to my attention that you may have something that originally belonged to the CIA," she explained.   
  
"I have many things that were once toys of the CIA," he spat, as if that would spit on the name of the CIA and all their agents.   
  
"This was a computer. A prototype, from the 1970's."  
  
Zhuravlev leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I do believe I know what you are talking about."  
  
  
Another mission, another ridiculous outfit with matching wig.   
  
Despite her change of permanent employer, Sydney Bristow found herself in the same tight, skin-revealing clothes that suction-cupped to her body and drew in the eyes and lust of breathing men everywhere. While her mother used her gifts for her own gain, exploiting them as she drew on this sexual energy, Sydney was almost shy, using them only in extreme situations.   
  
She strutted through the bouncing Russian club, long blond hair swaying behind her. Every so often, the end of one of the long braids would hit against the back of her legs; she was sure she would have large angry welts there by the end of the night. A few men's heads turned as she passed, but she paid them no mind. By the end of the night she would just be another face, another memory, a story to tell buddies. Remember that girl with the long braids… they would say, and launch into laughter over a good beer.   
  
Her eyes were sharp, looking for any sign of her mother, of something of value she would be able to bring home. So far, all she had seen were hyped-up Russian teenagers and young adults; a few older people left to mingle near the bar, quietly attempting old pick up lines and forgotten conversations.   
  
"See anything?" Dixon's voice echoed in her ear. She forced back a smile. His voice had become her compass, her stress relief, if you will. Her nerves settled as soon as he spoke, her mind becoming clearer.   
  
"Not yet."  
  
"Keep looking. She has to be there somewhere," he replied, his sentence ending with a click of a closed connection. Where was she?  
  
  
"It is useless, you know, without this...this disk thing. I do not even know what they looked like back then, in the time when this was created," Zhuravlev said to Irina, taking another drink of his vodka. He was nervous.   
  
"I can acquire that," she replied coolly. His eyes widened just a bit, a reaction to her statement or the drink in his hand, she did not know.   
  
"You can? How?"  
  
"You know as well as anyone that I cannot reveal my sources," she told him, "I was told you would have some information for me, something to aide me in my hunt."   
  
"I have materials. Documents. Shipping records, sales receipts," Zhuravlev replied, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms, the previous air of nervousness gone. Irina smiled. He was good, a worthy opponent.   
  
"May I see them?"   
  
"Of course." His smile was too wide - something was up.   
  
He thought he had won the game.   
  
A poor assumption on his part. Irina's eyes flickered to the top of the far staircase in the club as Zhuravlev motioned for his guard to retrieve the documents.   
  
  
There!  
  
Sydney turned her head after catching the movement out of the corner of her eye. Braids flew into the crowd, but the didn't care, she didn't care. A guard, clearly a guard, opened the door that lead to the adjoining restaurant, giving her a clear view of some of the tables inside. A sliver of brown hair was all she saw before the door shut behind him, brown hair she would know anywhere.   
  
"Dixon, she's here," she said hurriedly to him, rushing through the sea of moving bodies to a side, to the stairs. The restaurant was only one story, but it extended up to meet the second floor, allowing servers to bring food out to the balcony tables over the dance floor. If she could only get up there, she could get into the restaurant undetected by her mother.   
  
"What? Syd, where?"  
  
"The restaurant! I'm going up to the second story, going to try to get in that way."  
  
"Good luck. I'll keep an eye out here," he replied. She could see him in her mind's eye, sitting hunched before a panel of small monitors, watching everything around her. She put a hand on the railing and swung up onto the stairs, running up them, her feet pounding on the metal in rhythm to the music blasting her ears. She rushed to the top, breath exploding from her lungs in harsh gasps as she moved to find the side door.   
  
She moved to the side, inches from the door.   
  
"Hello, Agent Bristow."  
  
Her hand froze on the knob.   
  
//   
  
The papers were spread all around her on the white tablecloth, the center candle pushed to the side, various table-dwelling items gathered closely around it. The waitress had come and gone, leaving them to their papers as she put in their order, giving the papers only a passing glance. They were written in Russian and English, and her muddled mind was too tired to read the foreign words. She brushed her hair back and left.   
  
"Why did you get rid of it?" Irina asked suddenly, looking up from the onslaught of information.   
  
"Desperate times, dear Irina. I needed to settle a certain…debt. This settled it."  
  
"I see," she responded, turning her attention back to the folders and their contents.   
  
"Those are copies. You can take them," he spoke suddenly, almost catching her off-guard.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Just promise me one thing," he said, leaning forward, head resting on hands. His eyes, a light brown, blazed. "Let me bask in the glory of this secret, Irina."  
  
"Alks…"  
  
"Let me see their ruin."  
  
  
Her eyes were wide. An old saying came to mind at this moment, a line dredged up from her elementary days and Saturday morning jingles.   
  
Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.   
  
If Sark had been an officer in the Revolutionary War, he would have taken his enemy down already, so close he could be sure there was no wasted ammunition. Instead, they were in a Russian nightclub, and he stood coolly just beyond the shadows, his face half-illuminated by cycling, multi-colored pulse lights hanging just beyond her field of view. The music changed, the tempo rushing, increasing, just like her heartbeat. Her heart rattled in her chest. How could she be so stupid? How could she think Irina would come to see Zhuravlev without Sark, without back-up of some kind? He had perfect access - a view, a door.   
  
"Sark."  
  
"I wish I could say I was surprised to see you," he commented, moving around her to block her escape. Her only path now was off the edge of the balcony seats or through the door. She was sure he wouldn't let her through that door. "I thought our meeting here was confidential, but it seems some people aren't as trust worthy as we original surmised."  
  
"I thought you'd take care of all those kinds of people," Sydney spat. He smiled.   
  
"Such fire. We do. It's just a matter of time until we find out who spoke out of turn."  
  
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a mission to complete," she remarked. Her hand had not moved from the doorknob, still frozen to the warm metal. She started to turn it, surprised to find Sark unmoving across from her. She turned it more, finally pulling it open.   
  
In a flash, Sark kicked it close, his movement barely heard over the pulsating music. She whirled around him to the right, bringing up a leg for a high kick. He ducked, spinning around to grab a chair, using the momentum from said chair to pull himself back to face her. With the chair as a shield, he faced her, easily deflecting her various kicks and punches. She needed to get around him, around this, but it couldn't draw Irina and her companion's attention.   
  
Sydney spied his glass - a tall thin glass heavy on the bottom. Giving up a fake kick to distract him, she flipped over to the table and picked up the glass, throwing it up at his head. Unexpected, the heavy end hit him in the forehead, causing him to momentarily stumble backwards and drop the chair. She took advantage of her momentary lead and dashed for the door. There had to be a lock on the inside, if only she could get to it.   
  
Sark wasn't that weak, and ran for her as she made her way for the door. His arm came around her midsection, yanking her back from the door and throwing her against the wall. She hit with a sharp exhalation of breath, folding a bit, but not long enough to keep her down, and as he came in for another shot, she launched up and got him in the nose the old fashioned way, a sharp right hook that sent him stumbling back into the railing. Sydney quickly reached into her bag, and, not one to think the past would always repeat itself, handcuffed him to the railing and made her way for the door.   
  
She was not going to let Irina escape her this time.   
  
  
Irina smiled. Zhuravlev was exactly where she wanted him. Despite all his moves, all his plans, he still was a fly who had, for a short time, been able to fly around her web. But he was caught now, struggling against that which he did not know. Her long hands closed up the folders and scooped them from the table just as the waitress was approaching.   
  
"Ahh, finally. Won't you stay for a meal, Irina?" he asked of her as a large platter of food was placed before him. She smiled but declined, objecting to taking both his files and his food. "It's too bad. It was nice to see you again."  
  
"Likewise," she replied, standing. Her eyes flickered to the stairwell but did not see what she wanted.   
  
The Russian titan ate.   
  
Irina, sensing something wasn't going right, decided to take the front way out instead of snaking through the club. Sark was completely capable of taking care of himself, and when she didn't come out at the appropriate time, he would head to the rendezvous point alone. Files tucked in a satchel, Derevko's step was fast as she headed for the door.   
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
She turned. The waitress stood outside the doors to the kitchen, leaning against the wall.   
  
"Da?"  
  
"Mr. Zhuravlev appreciates the fact that you are going to forget where that information comes from and hopes to do business with you in the future."  
  
She stood there, shocked as the waitress returned to the kitchens. The fly still had a few tricks up his sleeve.   
  
Motionless for only moments, she continued to the door. Feeling this was too easy, she pulled open the front door and stepped into the vestibule.   
  
"Sydney. How nice it is to see you again."  
  
  
She had spotted her as soon as she entered the restaurant. It was amazing how easily she got around the tables, thankful for the large wall that served as a partition between a smoking and (newly added) non-smoking section. For once, she was thankful for the tourists who swept through cities, reforming them to their own tastes. If not for them, she would have been out in the open, there for her mother to see before she had her chance to corner her.   
  
She would not get away this time.   
  
It was a miracle she had gotten from the empty section to the host's stand; with the large open space between them, she had to be careful - fast. But she had, and entered the vestibule with the intent to wait, knowing Irina would spot, or rather, not spot Sark drinking somewhat bored at the top of the stairs, that she would make her way to the front. Sometimes, the relation to her mother was a valuable tool.   
  
A moment before she would have left in search for the tardy matriarch, the door opened and she slid it, her head turned slightly to the side, watching her back with one eye as one focused before her.   
  
"I believe you have something I want," she told her mother.   
  
"You don't know what you want."  
  
"There are several things I want," she retorted, unable to believe she was having this conversation. "But at the moment, those papers there would be nice."  
  
"You're always fighting against me," Irina said simply, "and ever time, you fail to understand that there is no need."  
  
"It's not my fault. You have, you have a record of deceiving people."  
  
Irina didn't reply - Sydney had a point there. There was something she could never fight against no matter how much she tried against the contrary. In the eyes of her only child she would be a traitor, a woman not to be trusted, a woman to always be questioned. While most mothers possessed their child's trust without question, without hesitation based on love passed through years, Irina had left in the middle of this building, of this foundation, leaving her child hanging with nothing to hold on to other than a distant father. But why couldn't Sydney recognize the inherent trait of all mothers, no matter their political affiliation - protection?  
  
"Please, Sydney, you have to believe me when I say I am not working against you with this," she almost pleaded, taking a step towards her. Sydney's reflexes came into play, causing her to step back towards the front doors. She would have seen Irina frown if it weren't for the group of loud, boisterous 20-somethings who crashed through the doors, arms slung lazily around one another as they stumbled onto the impromptu family reunion. One stumbled into Sydney's back, pushing her forward and to the side, behind her mother and shoved into a corner.   
  
"Hey!" she called out in surprise, taking the moment of confusion to pull her gun from where it was tucked in the back of her pants. The group laughed and passed through without a second thought to those they had just walked through, their minds on other matters. Sydney jumped out, gun drawn, ready to take the files from Irina, if not with civility, then with force.   
  
But Irina was gone.   
  
  
"Dixon, Dixon, she's _gone_!"   
  
"Who, Syd?"  
  
"Irina! She was here. I'm going back to where I put Sark. Can you find her out there? She fled from the front door," she paused, catching her breath for a moment as she ran through the restaurant, not caring if she were seen as she headed for the doorway between here current position and the club next door. "Going east."  
  
"Okay, Syd. I'm on my way," his voice cut out, and just before his side cut, she could hear the commotion caused by him getting up from his chair and leaping out the double doors in pursuit of Irina. She raced past the obnoxious group, almost tripping over outcast legs. Her graceful leap over them drew their attention for only a moment, but by the time they turned to the less attentive members of their party, she was gone, a slamming door the only sign she had ever been there.   
  
  
The street was dark. Black. Bleak. A country and city can change with the years, pull itself from the brink of starvation and ruin, re-establish itself in the world community, and yet, even now, the depression, the bleakness, the sadness radiated from the very soil into the soul of those who walked upon it, threatening to pull them down until they no longer had the desire to walk on.   
  
Marcus Dixon was running too fast down drizzle-slickened streets to notice its pull, his shoes only hitting against the ground with the slightest of pressure as he raced down the street, having seen the glint of brown hair in the dim streetlamps just moments ahead.   
  
She would not outrun him. He would not let her.   
  
  
"You are going to tell me what you were here for, and you're going to tell me now."  
  
For once, Sark had stayed put, a bruise developing where the glass had hit him, a swollen patch of skin that would be a tell on him for weeks. Her voice was low as she held Sark by the collar of his pressed shirt, his face inches from her as she demanded for information. He smiled.   
  
"Or what, Agent Bristow. I doubt I've made the CIA's list," he retorted bravely. She growled and banged him back against the metal railing, then pulled his head forward harshly.   
  
"What. Were. You. Here. For?" she demanded.   
  
"You don't have Irina, or else you wouldn't be here harassing me," he replied, his eyes rolling up to lock with hers. "Our last meeting was not one of chance, nor is this one. Do you believe Irina would waste a chance to attempt to reason with you?"  
  
"Reason with me?"  
  
"I told her it was a wasted opportunity. Nevertheless, she continues on with this futile effort to get you to see her true character."  
  
She banged his head back again, this time, disorienting Sark for just a moment.   
  
"You _are_ going to tell me everything."  
  
  
He wasn't going to shout out to her. Doing that would only alert her to his presence, as if his footfalls through puddles and gravel hadn't already. She was still running as though she was being chased, a flat-out run as if her life depended on it. But -   
  
Dixon caught up to her, a large hand yanking back her shoulder revealing her face to him.   
  
"I'm sorry! She paid me! Paid me to run!" the woman babbled in Russian, her voice squeaking as she kept going on and on. Dixon was blindsided, his head rushing with the severity of the situation. He raised his hand off her shoulder and sent her on her way, whirling around to face the other direction.   
  
"Sydney, she's gone. I'll meet you back at the van!" he yelled, running back to his field op van. Was it possible that she would no only pay a woman to distract him, to lead him astray, but sabotage the CIA equipment inside the van? It could not fall into her hands - no -   
  
He reached the van, his breath rough and ragged; he was tempted to lean over and put his hands on his knees. His eyes were wide, instead, a hand coming to the back of his head.   
  
The van was gone.   
  
  
"Sydney, Sydney, get out of there!"  
  
Dixon's voice crackled through to her ear, interrupting her interrogation of Sark. She had him pressed against the railing, his face mere inches from hers, warm breath covering him. She paused mid-sentence, Dixon's concern and worry causing her to re-think her current motions.   
  
"Did you hear me! Get out of there!"  
  
Her head rose. She got all the information she was going to get from him.   
  
"Foolish, as always," he commented.   
  
She promptly knocked him out before rushing down the stairwell through the sweat soaked bodies, slipping past them as her blond braids thwaped against her back. This time, she paid them no mind as she ran, pushing against them in the hyper-eurhythmic pulse of the club. The lights flashed as she disappeared through them, giving Sark one glace over her shoulder before she did so, her eyes filled with pity for a boy caught in a game he should never have been entraped in.   



	16. Circe Part B

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter Six: Circe [Part B]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation.  
  
**Chronic Vertigo**   
_CHAPTER SIX\\ Circe [b]_  
**circe**  
n : (Greek mythology) a sorceress who detained Odysseus on her island and turned his men into swine but later led them on the way home.  
Weiss rubbed his hands together, his face that of a starving man – Yogi bear hiding in the bushes just outside the picnic area, awaiting that oh so pinnacle moment when the picnicing family would, for some unknown reason, leave the basket unguarded. At that moment, he'd sneak in and steal it. The basket currently sat in Hong Kong, China, and Vaughn was the vacationing family.   
  
"C'mon!" Weiss almost whined, leaning forward in his stiff backed airplane chair, elbows resting on his knees.   
  
"I'm trying to sleep," Vaughn replied, annoyed. He sat across from Weiss in the bright plane, the window next to him shaded to give him a small degree of solace from the blaring sunlight of a new day without her, without silence he so desperately needed to sleep.   
  
The last for sure, what with Weiss whining about his need for 'authentic Chinese food' as soon as they landed.   
  
"What is this? Sleep when Weiss is around?" the latter asked of him.   
  
Vaughn simply popped open a tired green eye and glared.   
  
"Fine, fine, I surrender," he retorted to the one-eyed glare, his arms raised in mock surrender. "Sorry for caring."  
  
Vaughn sighed and opened both his eyes, lazily propping his head up on a fist, leaning against the armrest. He lay relaxed, as if he threatened to flow straight from the chair if not secured in with a seatbelt. He gazed at his friend of years, remembering all the times skewed by alcohol and over-run emotions. Of humor masking concern. He could see it now, creeping up the edges of his posture, his eyes and face.   
  
"You can't sleep at home, can you?"  
  
It came through more as a statement than a question, the answer known to both parties as soon as the query broke free of Weiss' mouth. His degree of introspection was surprising to Vaughn, who felt he was the only one caught in this chaos, the outside world blurred in his eyes. But Weiss was clear now, as he always had been (although it must be said that it usually was Weiss who caused his vision to sway after a night away at a bar he wouldn't remember in the morning).   
  
"I know you don't want to talk about it – when do you? – so I want you to listen to me. You can do that, right?"  
  
"Yeah, I can listen," Vaughn replied through a yawn. "But if I fall asleep…" He trailed off, a smirk on his face.   
  
"Shut it," Weiss warned.   
  
"I'm just saying," Vaughn shrugged oddly as he switched support arms.   
  
"I think you can't sleep when you're alone. I don't know why, but I do know you've been going to Syd's instead of your place. And you were sleeping on that ugly pink couch – how anyone could sleep on something as loud as that is beyond me. You've got a lot on your plate right now and you're not letting the Weiss-man be there for ya – "  
  
"Weiss-man?" Vaughn raised an eyebrow.   
  
"Don't knock it."  
  
"Using it on that IT girl, are you?" he asked, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head. Weiss' face lit up and his posture straightened, the air of seriousness vacant, replaced by its normal clown nature.   
  
"Awe, Mikey, you remembered!"  
  
"What is it, pathetic nickname time? This is what you interrupted my sleep for?"  
  
"There's no need for that pessimistic attitude," Weiss frowned. "You know, I had – "  
  
"A near death experience," they said in unison, Vaughn laughing at Weiss' bemused expression as they finished at the exact same time.   
  
"So? How's that going? Gonna tell me her name yet, or is she to remain anonymous."  
  
"To keep her from you, yes!"  
  
"Didn't you notice? I have a _girlfriend_."  
  
"When don't you?" Weiss muttered, "Monica, her name's Monica. She's so into me."  
  
"She didn't..." Vaughn smirked. Weiss nodded, the implications of the simple statement enough for both to know what the other was talking about. Years of a close friendship had caused them to create their own vocal shorthand, giving others the impression of some degree of insanity on their part (which was not completely unfounded). But at that moment, Weiss knew he had succeeded with what he'd wished to do, a smile across Vaughn's usually haunted features exactly what he needed to see.   
  
It was only fair, as Vaughn had done the same for him countless times.   
  
"Now, I hope we get back from this mission alive, because I've got a date."  
  
  
**Kowloon, China**  
  
With Great Britain's control over Hong Kong, easily one of the largest and most influential cities in East Asia, America had an easy relationship with the local government and those in power. Information was traded freely over several routes of communication between the two world superpowers, allowing the CIA to have eyes and ears inside the city known equally for both its wealth and corruption.   
  
In the early 1980's, the CIA invested in a small piece of property on the wealthy side of the island port, a modest home in an embellished neighborhood that continuously overlooked those who were lesser than themselves. Virtual invisibility. This station, aptly nicknamed Invisible Point, or simply, The Point, was a key instrument in the regulation of crime throughout the region, responsible for over 100 arrests since its inaugural run in 1982. Seen as an irreplaceable tool for accurate intel collection in East Asia, The Point was kept open past the expiration date on Great Britain's lease.   
  
Because of the invisibility of this station, the Chinese government continues to be unaware of its existence, believing it to be the home of one Charles McVey and his wife Katherine, transplants from British India who sought a stable market for their wildly successful import/export business. Because of this carefully crafted cover, the Chinese government took no action against the property when it finally reclaimed power back from the British, and while the flow of information had certainly thinned, it was in no way completely exhausted.   
  
Kowloon, however, was another matter.   
  
Despite the common misconception that Kowloon was simply a district of Hong Kong, the city settled on the banks of Mainland China a ferry ride away from the British colony was still in the hands of China. The conditions never changed, even during the hand over, but it was during those pinnacle years of the cold war that truly shaped the peninsula. Left in the hands of a communist government, it seemed practically unreachable to western powers of democracy, giving those who conducted business there a false sense of security.   
  
Deals went down nightly in the smoke-filled halls settled on narrow back streets and alleys set far from the tourists' eyes. Assassination orders, black market sales, embezzlement schemes. All just beyond the shining streets lines with shops and holy temples on guarded sanctuaries. Believed to be clear of the eyes they knew were watching over Hong Kong, these shady deals were made completely in the open.   
  
But China, just as the CIA, had a vested interest in these deals.   
  
In the summer of his third year with the CIA, Michael Vaughn was sent to Kowloon to work undercover as an arms dealer looking for a new region in which to set up camp. It was a huge operation to be put on the shoulders of such a young agent, but with his previous successes as proof, he was believed to be capable to handle a mission of such magnitude.   
  
With as so much as a week's notice, he was sent off to the crumbling city, a reputation created by the Agency as the only security that he would not be killed upon arrival. And he was good at his job, bringing down deals left and right with no clear association to himself.   
  
That was, until he met Apple.   
  
Apple Cho was a dancer in the club Vaughn frequented as part of his cover, and she was a very good dancer at that. Three months after his insertion into this world of corruption and death, she caught his eye and never let go. This infatuation was only compounded when it was learned she was privy to certain discussions taking place in the private rooms, information that was necessary to the completion of this mission and the downfall of one of the largest assassins in the Asian realm. His assignment? Get close to Apple Cho. As close as possible.   
  
The memories of past missions and the implications of falling in love on the job haunted him the entire time. It was quite an act he was putting up, and just when he thought he had gotten through scott free, the unimaginable happened.   
  
He fell for Apple Cho.   
  
It was unfortunate, then, that the next day, as the team was going in to apprehend their target after 4 months, they found the Chinese government there as well. On the team?   
  
A one Apple Shu Cho.   
  
She was an excellent agent, so much so that not even the team settled in Kowloon with Vaughn had known her true intentions. The CIA ended up getting their man as well as being kicked out of Kowloon. A gold mark went on his record, and a promotion soon followed.   
  
It was the wall of heat that hit him as he exited the plane at Hong Kong International Airport that brought back these memories. But it was also the sight of a slightly older Apple Cho standing just under the shade created by the terminal that threw him back into the past. She sauntered over to the pair as they shouldered their duffle bags, her long black hair flying in the wind of arriving and departing planes.   
  
"Well, look who it is," she commented in perfect English, her brown eyes hidden by stylish shades from Paris. "If it isn't Mike and his sidekick Eric."  
  
"Hey there, Apple. How'd you find us?" Weiss asked, smiling at her.   
  
"The agency thought it best to let us know about your mission, believing that the assistance of the Chinese government might protect their asset rather than have you two screw up and piss off the higher ups when we stumbled onto your op," she replied, flipping her hair. Flipped her God-damned hair. Vaughn sighed and shook his head, distracting himself from her less than professional yet hauntingly familliar movements by digging through his duffel's outer pockets for his sunglasses.   
  
"So, what? Are you coming with, or just helpin' us out here, because lemme tell you, it's really hot out here," Weiss commented, squinting against the sunlight with unshaded eyes.   
  
"Well then, let's go inside." Just like that. They were supposed to just follow the leader?   
  
"Weiss," Vaughn growled as the pair followed behind her at what Vaughn considered being a safe distance. "When you commented about seeing Apple again, did you have any idea, I don't know, that we would actually see her again?"  
  
"You're asking me?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Yes what?"  
  
"I knew there was a possibility we'd see her when we landed."  
  
Vaughn simple gave him a sharp, pointed look instead of muttering a retort.   
  
//  
  
"Dad – "  
  
"Is everything alright?"  
  
"I'm on the plane," Sydney replied, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The plane was relatively empty, the lights dimmed as a black night sky scrolled by beyond thick plastic windows. The hum of air steadily flowing into the cabin preventing it from being completely silent in the aluminum shell protecting them from the pressurized air outside. Beside her, Dixon slept lightly, his head resting gently against the headrest, the complementary pillow nestled underneath his neck. Sydney gave a tired sigh and shifted farther from him in her seat, wishing the cord on the airplane's phone was just a bit longer.   
  
"I trust the mission was successful," Jack stated after hearing her sigh, the tone of his voice rising just a small degree as if he were unsure if he should ask it as a question or simply state it reassuringly.   
  
"Mom was there," she said, her voice as downcast as her mood. "She – she got away. Again."  
  
She could see her father sitting there, behind his desk, brown eyes sharp yet unfocused as his emotions and logistical side struggled for a response. "Sydney..." he started.   
  
"Not only did she get away, but she got some files from Zuravlev. There, there was this group of people, they got between us. I wasn't looking," she finished, rubbing her forehead. How stupid was she? Why hadn't she pulled her gun on her mother the moment she entered that vestibule? It certainly would have assisted her in obtaining the files needed and not the incoherent of a beat Sark.   
  
The same ramble of words that had been gnawing away at her consciousness like tiny ladybugs consuming a leaf. Slowly, bit by bit, the words repeated and morphed as if in a game of telephone, becoming more mutated until the end where the meaning had completely changed. _You're over-analyzing_, she told herself.   
  
So why was she on the phone with her father, now, late at night while flying over the Atlantic?  
  
"Was the mission a complete failure?" Jack asked, self-control keeping his voice even.   
  
"I had a run in with Sark," she said slowly. Jack leaned back in his chair. Something in her voice was telling him all he needed to know, spoke volumes more than mere words could. It was said by old women and the superstitious that things occur in threes - or twos, depending on the saying. Jack, with the events and occurrences of his life, was inclined to such beliefs. And when his only child spoke with that tone, the tone he had used so many times in his life, his unconscious belief in such doomsday sayings frightened him.  



	17. Circe Part C

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter Six: Circe [Part C]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation. As always, thanks to Carmen_Sandiego and Jen for their awesome beta'ing.   
  
**Chronic Vertigo**   
_CHAPTER SIX\\ Circe [c]_

"The plan," Apple Cho had told them in the car, "is to make you appear as tourists."  
  
It wasn't a hard feat; Hong Kong was crawling with tourists looking for someplace exotic and different for their summer vacations. Miami was overdone, California crowded, and the majesty of New England yawn-worthy. With a healthier world economy and cheaper airline tickets, a ploy made by the quickly hemorrhaging airline industry, the Orient was drawing in more and more bored Americans looking for a new experience. And while that only stretched so far as to things they saw out the window from an air conditioned charter bus or from the streets of a shopping street, they still were indistinguishable from one another.   
  
A perfect cover.   
  
As she expertly slid the car into a lucky parking spot within sight of the stairs and elevator, Vaughn had furrowed his brow; a part of the plan as it was thus far bothering him.   
  
"How does that get us to the club?" he'd asked, finally looking her way as he exited the small vehicle.   
  
"He's got a point, ya know. We can't just waltz in there with cameras slung around our necks and say 'Hey boys, we kinda got lost,'" Weiss backed him up, hands shoved in his pockets.   
  
"C'mon, boys, I thought you were more creative than that," Apple quickly retorted. "We've rented a few suits here for the time being."  
  
"Covert ops from a 5-star hotel? Things have changed around here since we've been gone," Vaughn quipped. Their shined shoes echoed softly on the concrete below their feet, the rustle of their duffels slung over their shoulders sounding in almost a musical pattern. It was always cold and void in parking garages, just as it was in the back room of the Micro Self-Storage halfway around the world. Vaughn raised his head to the ceiling for a moment, wondering where Sydney was; how she was doing. Weren't they supposed to have more time together now that SD-6 was gone?  
  
As soon as this is over, he attempted to reassure himself. When this ancient piece of machinery was recovered, they would return to their daily charade of joint missions and longing looks over styrofoam cups of old coffee and stacks of mission reports.   
  
The door to the stairs swung open on creaking hinges, becoming a dull sound by the time it reached the edges of the concrete castle of cars. Apple held the door open for a moment, her hand sliding across the glass as she moved inside the stairwell. Elevators, apparently, were for wimps.   
  
"Being tourists will get you to Kowloon. So many people go over there for the shopping that no one will take notice of your entry," she explained as they climbed the stairs to the connected level. It ended up being only one floor above them, a long hallway carpeted in a deep royal blue with clear glass walls on either side giving a view of downtown Hong Kong. Here, their shoes made no sound, the hall containing it all between glass panes. Apple didn't speak again, an action that quelled any apprehension Vaughn had held in the staircase and her blatant disregard for discussing covert missions in the middle of an echoing stairwell.  
  
The elevator was much of the same, Weiss whistling to himself, wishing he hadn't buried his yo-yo in the bottom of his bag. While it was always a good idea to place those objects you didn't want to forget in your suitcase or the like first, it didn't make for a quick and easy retrieval – and those objects would be the ones you'd need the most!   
  
They exited on floor 41, the carpets here a shade lighter than that in the glass hall, outlined in deep gold with shining flowers adorning the ends of each section. Apple's hand moved to her back pocket, Vaughn finding his eyes following it as she extracted a key card from it, finally able to tear them away as she opened the door to a room.   
  
"Wow! You guys really know how to treat a guy nice!" Weiss exclaimed, eyes wandering over every surface of the room. Apple laughed and started pulling computer equipment from the dresser, her laughter blanketing the warmly lit room with a sort of lightness Vaughn found himself uncomfortable with.   
  
  
"Tai Sin is located two blocks west of the main fare through that connects the shops to the ferry harbor." The table, a round wooden carved table surrounded by three padded chairs, was cluttered with files both in English and Chinese, photographs interspersed.   
  
"The computer is stored in the basement," Vaughn supplemented, leaning forward. "What can you tell us about security in that area?" Apple scrutinized the information, her face scrunching up as she thought.   
  
"Give me a moment – I can find out for you," she said, and promptly stood, leaving the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Weiss rose and paced.   
  
"I don't trust her," he said.   
  
"Neither do I," Vaughn admitted.   
  
"I mean, I've worked with these guys before, when we came for you; this isn't normal operating procedure. Not even close," Weiss continued. Vaughn nodded.   
  
"I know," he retorted. Weiss paused, turning to face his best friend.   
  
"Then why," he started, his hands moving up as if he were squeezing a large ball between them, "are we still here listening to her?"  
  
"Aren't you curious as to who she's working for?" Vaughn asked, leaning forward and sideways in his chair.   
  
"She's already double crossed us once…"  
  
"I know, Weiss! But she has information we can use," he crossly finished up. He was well aware of her past transgressions. Very aware. And yet he wasn't completely convinced they should leave her and her plush suit for a smaller hotel their CIA budget account would cover. Young and curious, he wanted to know who her loyalties were for, and why they would be here, working with them – helping them.   
  
"False information?"  
  
"Could be."  
  
"C'mon, Michael! What are we doing here?"  
  
Vaughn took a moment to reply, listening to make sure Apple was still conversing on her phone before he spoke up.   
  
"Listening to her. She'll leave before the op – she has to. That's when we'll form our plan."  
  
"This is dangerous, Mike."  
  
He smiled. "So? We are spies, you know."  
  
  
"We'll leave tomorrow at 0800. Be at the ferry docks; I'll meet you there." And she left.  
  
Ten minutes after she left the room, Vaughn and Weiss gathered up only what they desperately needed and left the hotel, items tucked in drawstring laundry bags lifted from a vacated housekeeping cart. A light drizzle had started in the nighttime hours, a sprits really, cleaning off the city as late parties were just getting started.   
  
The pair of men preferred walking through the shadows, avoiding prying eyes and bright lights as they crossed town. The eyes of their enemies could be anywhere, especially when those enemies who had no identity, no shape or form. A child crossing the street could be relaying their position, or an aging man out for a stroll. The shadows were the best place to hide.   
  
The small hotel, located before departing, sat just over a half-mile from where Apple had brought them under the guise of working for the Chinese government. It wasn't as beautiful as the latter, but it would do for their purpose. Men who stayed in places such as these knew not to repeat that which they heard. The pair jogged under a flickering and yellowed streetlamp to the dilapidated entrance and quickly fell in, thankful to be out from the damp air on the other side of the walls.   
  
Weiss procured them a room, a small, double bed affair on the second floor with a warning to 'not mind the strange noises from above' attached. Whatever that meant, they wanted no part of it, and simply locked the old fashioned bolt behind them to give some sense of security.   
  
"What's wrong with your ankle?" Weiss asked, unpacking what little he had. Vaughn sat at the end of the far bed, rubbing said ankle as he removed his shoes.   
  
"Sprained it in Colombia," he replied shortly. He groaned and fell onto the bed. When was the last time he'd slept? A short nap after coming back from Mitchell's large estate? A little bit of sleep on the plane? His longest duration without sleep was three days, and he was rapidly approaching his limit, eyelids descending over his eyes involuntarily. Vaughn sighed and ran a hand over his face, almost slapping it to wake himself up. Mission. Plan. No sleep.   
  
"I almost want to let you sleep," Weiss commented, plopping down on his own bed.   
  
"But?"   
  
"It was your idea to listen to Apple for so long. Consider it your punishment," he joked.   
  
"10 minutes?"  
  
"You'll never wake up. C'mon."  
  
Vaughn managed to drag himself into a sitting position across from Weiss and pull out the files they'd taken from the room. The ferry was to leave at 0800, giving them 8 hours to plan this and sleep.   
  
"The best way to enter," Apple started once returning to the room, "is to enter through a service entrance in the back of the club. No doubt they have a regular delivery of alcohol for the bar, which is situated on the east side of the building. There's a passageway that connects them for easy and invisible restocking. The stairs to the basement, however, are on the west side of the club."  
  
"So we'll have to cross the floor," Vaughn had surmised.   
  
"And there's no passage connecting the two sides?" Weiss asked.   
  
"There's a window in the women's bathroom on the west side that can be accessed. That's your best bet. Once you exit the restroom, you turn to your right – there's the door to the basement sublevel.   
  
"It's mostly storage, but there are two rooms. One for meetings of a more sensitive nature, the other, the locked vault room. The lock is simple, a standard keypad that can be cracked with any descrambler."  
  
"And once we get the door open, how are we supposed to get out of there with a huge piece of machinery?" Vaughn cynically asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"It's actually not that large, according to our specs. That's where Eric comes in. You," she smiled, pointing to the slightly distracted Weiss, "get to be a delivery man new on the job. You've messed up your route or something. The cart used to roll in the crates can be used to conceal and extract the computer."  
  
"Use the cart, get in the van, and we're out. Doesn't seem too complicated. And there are no guards?"  
  
"I didn't think they posed a problem," she replied simply. Weiss gave a fake smile – not a field agent by any means; he was sure Kendall fully expected him to sit in the van and monitor security feeds and communications. This duty, the one he was good at, had been taken over by Apple, who proclaimed Weiss would be a more convincing delivery boy than her. When he argued she actually appeared Chinese while he did not in the least, she replied that women did not do those jobs and he would have to do his best acting.   
  
He wasn't feeling all that comfortable with her plan.   
  
With her announcement of the ferry's departure, she had excused herself, giving them some speech about having to make sure all was in order for the op. There was no way, after already doubting Apple's honesty, they would trust her equipment.   
  
A call to The Point was in order.   
  
And finally, at 1:30 in the morning, Vaughn finally settled down for his first night of rest in a long time.   
  
//  
  
"An hour late," was all Irina commented when Sark stumbled into the airport terminal, a bandage over his eye covering a cut caused by a glass shard, bruises adorning his normally perfect yet pale face. His suit, albeit a bit wrinkled, still seemed to lay on him impeccably, giving no real reason to believe he had just cleverly escaped a pair of handcuffs after a fight with a CIA agent.   
  
He even had his plane ticket tucked in his back pocket, buttoned in place, of course.   
  
Irina sat in a plastic molded chair, her long tanned legs crossed as she read a magazine, the files obtained from Zhuravlev tucked just inside lest any prying eyes watched. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a tight, short dress, her mocha hair pulled into a ponytail. It appeared as if, when he had been fighting against Sydney and interrogated, she had gotten off without a scratch.   
  
Sark approached and sat in the chair next to her.   
  
"I had a little run in with your charming daughter," he reported. Irina smiled.   
  
"And what did you tell her?"  
  
"Exactly what you told me to say," he replied, leaning forward. "I don't understand your motives nor your execution, but you know I do trust your judgment. I just wonder – are you going too far?"  
  
"I warned her," Irina said, her voice growing dark. "These are events that were put into motion over 20 years ago. I am simply doing my part. If it wasn't me doing this, someone else would take my place." She turned to Sark, closing the magazine.   
  
"I see," he breathed. "Well, then, I will leave you too it."  
  
Irina simply widened her grin. Instead of creating a larger, warming smile, it was simply chilling, causing Sark to thank his stars that Irina and him were, at the moment, on the same side.   
  
//  
  
"You know what I love about this country?"  
  
"Stop talking with your mouth full," Vaughn chastised him, keeping his eyes on the crowd as he scanned it for Apple. Weiss swallowed and tried again.   
  
"I love that I can have Chinese food any time of the day," he said, scooping another helping of egg foo yung from the container he held in his hand. As he stood eating his warm and authentic Chinese food, Vaughn donned his sunglasses and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He felt better, now with a night of sleep behind him, his mind clear, a preverbal bounce to his step.   
  
"You know, that's because we're in China," he quipped back to Weiss.   
  
"I'm not 4. I know what country I'm in."  
  
"Just checking," Vaughn shrugged.   
  
Apple smiled as she approached. Great.   
  
  
  
They had to play this carefully. With Apple believing they were still following her plan, every movement to the contrary, each and every deviation done in secret, were duplicated to the specifications of the original plan. This involved distracting Apple when a deviation occurred without arousing her suspicion. Weiss, as he told Vaughn the night before, was very good at this last part.   
  
"I've gotta use the bathroom, I'll be back in a sec," Weiss said quickly. The bathrooms were located on the opposite side of the ferry, near the entrance to the lower decks. As Weiss crossed the worn, wooden deck, Vaughn gave him a thumbs up behind his back outside Apple's field of vision. He smiled a small, sad smile, and quickly disappeared into the vehicle deck.   
  
A call to The Point made the previous night quickly got them the equipment they needed. This deviation, discovered by a bug planted on the inside of Apple's cell phone while she used the washroom during their planning session the night before, proved to be simple – she was using a standard white utility van. However, it was the interior than needed to be altered.   
  
"This the van?" Weiss looked to his left, coming face to face with a plain clothed man, a CIA badge clutched in his left hand. "Don't worry, you called, here I am."  
  
"What's up?" he asked, shoving a hand in his left pocket. His yo-yo, stored there, doubled as a worry stone, his thumb rubbing against it as he listened to the agent speak.   
  
"Basic switch. The duplicate van has the same interior, only with our codes in the feeds. I'll be taking the original off with me; don't worry, the interior has been covered to be a convincing antiques transport between the island and the mainland. She won't know the difference, but we'll be the ones manipulating the data stream. Don't worry – you're covered."  
  
"The keys?" Weiss asked.   
  
"Make a drop switch." The agent dropped the new key ring in Weiss' hand and disappeared behind the tall vans dotting landscape of automobiles. Weiss looked down at the key and sighed. Drop switch. Right. Weiss sighed and jogged up the stairs.   
  
Apple was waiting for him.


	18. Circe Part D

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter Six: Circe [Part D]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation. As always, thanks to Carmen_Sandiego and Jen for their awesome beta'ing, and Michele for her awesome help. 

He ran up the stairs, heart pounding as he checked his watch. How long had he been gone? Was Apple going to launch into a barrage of questions as soon as he reappeared on deck, her narrow almond eyes analyzing him as he sputtered out a half-practiced response?

4 minutes. Acceptable if he put in a line about getting lost on the way, or meeting up with someone and having an impromptu conversation. No, the second choice required manufacturing the content of said false conversation, something Weiss, who spent most of his time in a cubicle, seating at a desk thick with paperwork, had little experience with. Spinned tales as a kid, yes, but those weren't attached to the possibility of death if told incorrectly.

He burst from the sublevel as a whale breaks to the surface – loud and quickly, his eyes widening as he came face to face with Apple Cho.

"Eric?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "What were you doing down there?"

"Bathroom. You know I can't read anything that isn't English. Thought this thing would be bilingual," he complained, the whine entering his voice. Apple pondered this for a moment, testing its validity. Weiss attempted to appear relaxed as his stomach rode a Ferris wheel spinning within.

She made a sound – Chinese, if he had to guess - and smiled at him.

"That's the car level."

"I figured."

"Smart-ass, c'mon, I was just heading there myself."

Weiss smiled and fell into step at her side, the duplicate key tucked away in his pants pocket. As a harsh cross-wind blew against his cheeks, he sighed, wishing for a jacket despite the heat on the mainland. His eyes drifted.

And that's when he noticed something was missing.

Apple had left her bag in Vaughn's care. 

Spies didn't regularly carry purses. Almost an unspoken rule in the world of international espionage – or even, to go broader, the world of secrets of national security – was that pertaining to the habitual carrying of bags of any kind. This was commonly overlooked as several employees carried briefcases to and from the workplace, and now, as technology grew smaller and smaller, carried laptops, palms, and numerous other devices in black inconspicuous bags, worn from constant use.

This presented a serious quandary for security; the information now digital, easily accessible and twice as easy to fall into enemy hands.

One of the first solutions was the simplest – to stop the usage of bags, of taking equipment out of the building. Already lacking in disk drives and the use of the internet filtered behind an indestructible firewall, this presented an easy, cost effective solution but a working nightmare. But what about agents in the field? Without this ability to see materials outside the confines of a stationary building, the security team had to go back to the drawing board of sorts to figure out a new solution.

It was this rule, that of not carrying a bag of any kind, that continued into practical use today, and the only items found within one that was carried were simply smaller tools needed for the current mission, no mark or proof of a separate identity, as if they didn't even exist. 

Which is why Vaughn found it odd that Apple's bag contained more personal items than not.

Vaughn was not the kind of man prone to shifting through others belongings, nor would he find anything inside a woman's 'purse' as it may be interesting. While most men would find the contents as items from some unknown land; spending his teenaged years as a child in a home run by a solitary woman had desensitized him to the mysteries. He waded through them carefully, making sure not to disturb them as he did so.

"Vaughn, quick, key switch!" And a pair of keys came flying at his head. He caught them, naturally, the metallic clang of the set ringing through the air giving him enough warning time to make sure they weren't lost because of his incompetence. A rushed and out of breath Weiss came to meet him at his side, snatching Apple's set of plain keys from the bag and shoving them in his pocket as Vaughn replaced them. Without the need to ask any questions, he closed the bag's flap and threw it over his shoulder, turning to Weiss. 

"So, all set?" he inquired, discretely looking out the side of his eye for Apple's reappearance.

"Yeah, met the guy downstairs, we're good."

"She's in the bathroom?"

"Thank God men take less time than women."

"For once," Vaughn smirked. Weiss laughed.

"There's so a story behind that look," he remarked, grinning like the chestier cat. Vaughn sighed. Why was he friends with Weiss again?

"Okay, okay," he sighed, the smirk still on his face. "I had – "

"Hey, guys?"

Weiss simpered. She didn't suspect a thing. 

Tai Sin wasn't that far off the main road. It didn't seem as if a lost tourist would been completely out of the ordinary, even if they did order a drink before wading back out into the sea of those like themselves. The second one stepped off the ferry in Kowloon, they were launched into a shoulder to shoulder swarm of people, gold circled wrists above heads as they pointed out shops along the main route. Parents tied to children with new child leashes as to not lose them. It seemed like every vacationer's dream as they moved down towards the shops like a heard of cattle being corralled.

The heat was overwhelming as the ferry emptied, drips of sweat already forming on once cold bodies. The air seemed to stick to the tongue, a dry mouth remedied only by water, something the locals had picked up on as several of the earlier shops advertised, in English, ice cold bottles of water for a cheap and reasonable price (though this was not in American currency, and so, it only [i] seemed[/i] as if it were a good price). The air smelled of sweat and dirt, clogging nostrils, ignored in pursuit of material pleasures.

Eric Weiss was glad he'd discarded his suit coat back on the island, draped over the back of a chair in Apple's posh hotel as evidence of occupancy. If the ferry left at 8 am, Vaughn and Weiss had returned to the hotel at 6 am, small bags of belongings in tow, staying there only long enough to convince onlookers and snoops that they had spent the night there. His coat was last minute abandonment, decided only after he spied Vaughn's casual attire more able to supply coolness in the extreme Asian heat than his more conservative outfit. And while the boat had chilled him, the new heat warmed him right up, a hand moving up to brush sweat off his brow two steps off the ferry.

"How can you stand living here?" he asked of Apple, walking tall and proud in the sea of Caucasians. She frowned, annoyed by Weiss' insulting questions, and gave a beat before replying.

"You just get used to it," she shrugged nonchalantly.

Weiss stayed quiet after that.

The threesome blended well in the moving crowd, surprising even the skeptic in Vaughn who doubted the logistics of Apple's plan. They mingled so well he lost sight of the others at a few points, only catching up with them because of their common destination. Weaving in and out, finding pockets of space where they could, the three spies snaked their way off through side streets before finally freeing themselves of the stifling crowd. It was by no means devoid of any others back in the smaller, less profitable shops. A few adventurous couples stood here and there, looking in through open doors and yellow-tinted windows at exotic trinkets to bring home as a reminder of that 'time we went off the map!' or other such exclamations of little real importance.

"Okay, so we'll approach just as Apple planned earlier. I'll go in with her, slipping off to check the status. You come in after. I don't know what blueprints she was working from, but there is a service corridor behind the stage that connects the back door with the basement," Vaughn explained the night before, a cup of coffee running through his veins the only fuel keeping his tired body awake anymore. Four days of nothing but globetrotting, an emotional roller coaster even the most iron clad of stomachs would find nauseating; he was amazed at his own resilience. 

He was also wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.

Cynicism was becoming second nature, optimism nauseating, pessimism appealing. Unvoiced. Compartmentalized. Detached.

He sighed and gave Weiss a small nod as Apple led him towards a small, dark brown building at the end of a road, watching as Weiss disappeared as he climbed stone steps to the door, open yet giving the appearance of being closed, the darkness inside inviting. The pair disappeared inside.

The lights were muted, white with filters to give all the occupants appearances more flattering than those given by nature. Women moved to serve, yet it all seemed clean. He'd half-expected a sleazy, dirty club like the one he had frequented all those years ago, with half-dressed dancers and drunk men leaning over tables made from industrial cord spools. Instead, the tables were tall and strong, like the men seated at them. Perhaps it was too early in the day for the shadier of figures to come out.

Or, this was a trap.

The sour feeling in the pit of his stomach increased, almost to the point of giving him a reason to find the bathrooms. Apple moved like nothing was wrong, as if she had done nothing to the contrary. As if she were the truth.

There was no way he could move with Sydney's grace; he tried, slithering through shadows as Apple caught the attention of the men, distracting them as he made his way to the door. Once through it, he heard the disappointed mummers of men as she left, a crackling in his ear affirming her relocation to the van trusted to be driven there by an unseen associate.

"Here," she said in plain view of her new CIA friends. "You know where to go." The keys were handed off, and the van trusted to be where it was needed in a timley mannor.

"You in?" she laughed, a laugh in her voice that never seemed to dissipate.

"Yes." Short and to the point. No sense in giving her more information then necessary, he decided, as he descended the stairwell. This was too easy, he thought, turning the handle.

The hallway beyond gave only two options before dead-ending at the far back wall. Left, to where he knew stood the private meeting room, and farther down, right, to the locked room. A light buzzed overhead, casting a jaundice tone over Vaughn's skin as he slinkered through the hall, careful not to arouse the attention of the loud, boisterous men seated a wall away in the private room.

"This is really cool," Marshall gushed at op tech a day and a world ago. In his hand he held a small, narrow rectangle of white with a small LCD display at the top. "Now, the lock for the safe room shouldn't be that hard. I mean, not that hard for someone who knows what they're doing – like if I went up to it and tried to open it, I'd be lost and might – well, talk to it. 'Hey there Mr. Door' and stuff like – " 

"Marshall?" 

"Right. Press this against the door handle, just under the keypad and make sure this here points up," he said, snapping back to the task at hand. "Then, just push this here button, and voila, door is opened."

Looking both ways, Vaughn settled in before the door. "It's clear?"

"As ever. Hurry up down there. Weiss should be making the delivery soon."

The decoder started cycling through numbers. He could hear the commotion in the room down the hall, the variation in volume. He hoped business had started and not the other possibility; that at any moment they could come filtering out into the hallway. Vaughn turned back to the decoder, hoping for Weiss' arrival.

"As soon as I attach the decoder, use the back hallway to meet me down there and stay out of Apple's sight. We're going to need both of us to get that thing out of there if it's as large as I think," Vaughn explained, rubbing the base of his neck as the coffee's magic started to wear out. Weiss nodded and took the file from his partner to give it a once over. 

"Why don't you get some sleep?" 

"I'm fine," he replied. Weiss shook his head. 

"You're going to screw up during the mission and I'm going to have to save your ass. Me."

Vaughn wished he'd gotten more sleep the previous night as the numbers decoding started to blur before him. A door handle moved down the hall, the squeak of poorly kept metal twisting at the hallway's serene silence. Adrenaline started pumping now, the handle turning another inch. Another. A voice besides the door shouted something, his mind turning it to an instruction to leave. Another inch. The door hinges squeaked, Vaughn's eyes widened, body ridged, ready to do battle if it came to that. Light from the door struck the hall, an odd triangle shadow reaching to Vaughn's feet. He straightened as an arm appeared.

The decoder beeped.

Within a second, he was inside, the door closed behind him as the man stepped into the hall. His look was short, but something struck him as familiar. Leaning against the door, Vaughn closed his eyes and regained his composure, chest heaving with pent-up anxiety. He took only a moment, the footfalls fading. Where was Weiss?

He opened his eyes to the room.

"Oh my God." 


	19. Vinculum Part A

**Chronic Vertigo  
** Chapter 7: Vinculum [Part A]   
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation. As always, thanks to Carmen_Sandiego and Jen for their awesome beta'ing.  
"So, how was your trip?"   
  
Sydney dragged her rolling suitcase across the tiled floor, wincing as it fell in and out of each groove, the rolling poking at her aching head. Relief flooded her head as it hit the carpet and smooth sailing. She smiled up at Francie as she passed her on a bee line to her bedroom and the comforts within; her pillows coupled with the sense of euphoria that was to greet her upon sliding under her warm covers all that kept her pulling the case across thick carpet.   
  
"Great."   
  
"Where were you this time?" Francie asked, almost bouncing as she rounded the couch. Sydney paused, trying to remember what she had said in passing before leaving. Boston again, wasn't it?   
  
"Boston, remember? I told you I was going to help some clients. They've been stranded ever since the bank closed, and since they knew me, I thought it might help in their transition to have someone familiar around as counsel."   
  
"You're so sweet, going out of your way like that," Francie smiled. "But you really need to stay home more."   
  
"I know, I know!" Sydney grinned, tucking her hair behind her ears. "But what I need now is a nap!"   
  
"Didn't sleep on the plane?"   
  
"Naw. Nothing like sleeping in your own bed," she replied, almost to her door. Francie nodded.   
  
"Okay. Well, I'll be at the restaurant when you wake up!"   
  
Sydney closed her bedroom door behind her and made sure to lock it before collapsing onto the bed. It was a luxury she shouldn't be taking, yet she felt comfortable with her decision. Her father knew all Sark had told her, informed through their lengthy telephone call that had ended in Dixon's untimely awakening as her voice elevated, frustrated with the lack of information. The rest of the trip was uneventful down to her departure from Dixon at the airport, the pair of agents clearly ready for some rest before their next assignment. And after two in a row, paired so close to each other, Sydney found herself even more exhausted than she imagined, straining to recall the last instance in which she had two so close together.   
  
And the week wasn't even over yet.   
  
She found no comfort in her empty bed, her thoughts returning to Vaughn. She wondered how things were progressing for him halfway across the world, while she sat recuperating. And as her thoughts dove into that subject of Vaughn and her need for him at the moment (as well as his need for her, a fear she forced herself to forget about for the moment), they took an unexpected turn to the new knowledge she had acquired. Despite her contempt for its source, and the logical side of her mind warning her of the issue of creditability, she found herself mulling over it all the same.   
  
..   
  
Irina sat across from Sark, smirking as she caught sight of his inquiring expression. The pair were seated in a contact of Irina's estate just over the German border, a rock's throw away from France. Extraction from Volgograd had been simple, and Sark once again wondered why the CIA still continued the use of handcuffs despite the ease of releasing one's self from their metal clutches. His forehead was still swollen, yet not as much as he'd had the sense enough to treat it quickly before it became a hindrance. He now sat across from his current employer, attempting to ask her with his eyes what had been so important to get his face smashed with his own drink's glass.   
  
"Was Mr. Zhuravlev useful?" he drawled.   
  
"Very," she replied almost immediately.   
  
"And yet he was unable to provide us with the location of this computer," Sark sighed, leaning back in his chair.   
  
"But he did provide adequate information."   
  
"Such as?"   
  
Irina smiled at her protégé. He led the conversation that way, looking for an easy way to ask her what they had recovered from Russia without sounding childish or demanding to his superior. A snake in a bed of healthy green grass.   
  
"He confirmed what I already knew, what had been rumor more than 20 years ago," she retorted cryptically. Sark held back an annoyed sigh, instead, he pressed his lips together in a pale red line.   
  
"Rumor?" he tersely inquired. Irina leaned forward and subtly licked her lips.   
  
"In the late 1960's, models of computers were beginning to be released in the United States that surpassed those of earlier years. It was at this time that the CIA grew a vested interest in the men designing these new machines, seeing a new world of information transfer opening up to them. But they also saw something far more important, something more valuable to information that was quickly becoming needed and improved in the global environment."   
  
"I assume you're alluding to encryption," Sark interjected. Irina nodded.   
  
"The CIA had always used encryption, a rudimentary form. These codes were only as unbreakable and complex as the human mind allowed," she clarified.   
  
"And thus, could be broken in the same way."   
  
"Exactly. But, if they could harness the power of the computer and its ability to handle millions of mathematical computations, they could produce unbreakable encryption codes."   
  
"Their information would be completely unreadable."   
  
"Yes."   
  
Sark took this in, letting the new information flow through his mind. "And this computer?"   
  
"The computer we are seeking was built by a Russo-American mathematician name Nikolai Gustrobiv in 1974 at CIA headquarters in Langley. Based off earlier designs and coupled with the most recent advances made by CIA scientists, he designed the Corvet computer, named for the encryption code it was to produce."   
  
"I'm sure Gustrobiv was upset about that one."   
  
"His name was deleted from the project files because of his nationality, and he was released from his employment at the CIA as it was completed," Irina continued to explain. "The Corvet computer was the CIA's greatest weapon in the information war – with it, they had the strongest encryption code ever created for that time, unbreakable by the human mind."   
  
"And the rumors?"   
  
"Upset about his new status as unemployed, Gustrobiv, upon returning to empty his workstation, stole the computer from the CIA and returned to his father's homeland. His grandfather, as it seemed, had ties to the KGB, and using this CIA computer as leverage, Gustrobiv found a new line of work," she continued. Sark's mouth hung open just a bit in disbelief.   
  
"He gave this encryption computer to the KGB?" he asked in wonderment.   
  
"The prototype was all he had and the CIA had, naturally, rebuilt the computer. But their program was out in the wild, perhaps in the hands of the enemy."   
  
..   
  
"Why isn't there a more complete file on this CIA task force?" Jack Bristow stood before Kendall in the director's office, his hands stuck at his side.   
  
"I don't know, Jack," he confessed. Jack sighed – despite Kendall's position as the director of the JTF, he had no knowledge and little actually clearance inside the CIA.   
  
"All I have is Sydney's word, which relies heavily on the words of a wanted criminal," Jack replied, his expression showing only a hint of his overall annoyance and frustration. There were things Sydney had said, had presented to him that dragged up their conversation earlier, questioning the loyalty of a dead man.   
  
"Shouldn't we at least hear her out?" Kendall tried. "Sark has been known to provide valuable information before."   
  
"We cannot simply trust a word he says!" Jack retorted.   
  
"Until we get more information," Kendall stated, rounding his desk. He pulled a file from the top of a large stack on the left side of the large wooden desk, across from the computer, and threw it across the empty middle region to Jack, the file sliding easily past neatly organized supplies and papers to rest just before the CIA man.   
  
"What's this?" he asked, picking it up and flipping through it as naturally as one walks down the street.   
  
"I requested the FBI's copy of the file," Kendall told him, sitting in his chair. "You might find it more complete than what the CIA gave you. Now, what did Sydney have to say?"   
  
..   
  
"You're going to tell me everything you know, and you're going to tell me now!"   
  
Sark failed to match her seriousness, the humor of it all almost cataclysmic. Irina was a woman to be trusted, he had learned, a woman who, even though the pieces she revealed may seem stupid and ill-planned, the whole picture would slowly slide into place. He had to admit - he wouldn't wish to have her as a mother, not with the way she treated even her own child.   
  
He complied only after she had a bit more fun with him, letting her believe she was in control. She had to believe she was in control.   
  
"The Corvaet computer. Zhuravlev, he's ex-KGB, a holder of things eclectic. Items that seemed to fall through the cracks when the KGB disbanded fell into his care," Sark explained, his breathing hurried to simulate discomfort.   
  
"Does he have it?" Sydney had demanded of him, bunches more of his collared shirt in the palm of her hand.   
  
"No, but he has the KGB's files on it, including transfer receipts."   
  
"A paper trail," she breathed, loosening her hold on him for a second. Sark grinned. He had her! Just as surmised before heading for the elite club in the heart of Volgograd.   
  
"Sydney, I must tell you something," Sark softened his voice, her brown eyes drifting back to his. "You must have suspected it before, I'm sure of it. You're an intelligent woman."   
  
"What are you talking about?" Sydney had asked him the question, but was afraid of the answer.   
  
"William Vaughn. Sydney, he knew ."   
  
"Knew what?"   
  
"He knew the KGB was going to get the computer," Sark said, using all his self-control to suppress a smile. "He knew about it before it happened."   
  
..   
  
"The Rigulski Encryption was the strongest encryption algorithm ever written, at it's time. Utilizing the power of the Corvet computer, Rigulski was able to encrypt CIA files faster than before, pumping the covert world full of intel that no one else could read. Even when we intercepted information, we could not read it." Irina was more relaxed now, as relaxed as Irina Derevko could be, leaning on the back of the chair, her posture still straight.   
  
"And now?" Sark inquired.   
  
"Older files are still encrypted with the Rigulski Encryption while newer files have been moved up to a newer, NSA regulated system. I do not know about that one."   
  
"Newer as in?"   
  
"5, maybe 10 years."   
  
Sark leaned back, fully leaning again the chair's rest, the metal groaning under the new added pressure. "Tell me, Irina, was the Rigulski Encryption on the computer Gustrobiv liberated from the CIA?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"And they still use the encryption?" he asked, snapping forward in his chair this time.   
  
"The Corvet computer was a prototype, built to see if it could handle the computations needed for the code. The CIA never intended for the code to be implanted on it. But Rigulski was an impatient man and did some tests of his own, including imputing the code-key," Irina smirked. "The KGB has been in posession of the CIA's master encryption for over 20 years and they never even knew it."   
  
"Which is why the CIA tasked a team to its recovery," Sark breathed.   
  
Irina gave a sly smirk. "And I was tasked to eliminate it, one by one."   
  



	20. Vinculum Part B

**Chronic Vertigo  
** Chapter 7: Vinculum [Part B]   
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
**Author's Note**: Feedback = updates. I swear, that's a real math equation. As always, thanks to Carmen_Sandiego and Jen for their awesome beta'ing.

  
  
First thing he noticed was the water running down the walls. The moisture had carved rivers into the stone walls, rivulets running the paths of harder rains down to a sloping floor. Mold had taken up residence in the room, the putrid odor assaulting his nostrils as soon as he allowed himself a moment of regulated breathing. Vaughn took a step, his footfalls silent; he knew that wouldn't last for long, as water had pooled where the floor sloped lower. His eyes, however, were soon drawn to the table in the center of the room.   
  
He'd noticed it, the card table propped up on rusted legs, standing in the center of the small room. His flashlight, hastily pulled from his pocket as soon as he'd entered the room, provided the only lighting. The room was small, a closet, maybe a bit larger; certainly not the storage place for a piece of electronic equipment. Instead, settled on the top of the table was - what was there?   
  
Michael Vaughn was careful as he moved towards the table, all too aware of the men outside the door, in the hallway beyond, who would be inside in an instant upon hearing his feet plopping through the water. If he stepped slowly and carefully, he could minimize sound - the room seemed all too eager to give into echoes.   
  
Painfully slow, he finally came face to face with the table's contents, his previous exclamation found to not have been a waste of breath.   
  
Set there, spread out atop the table, were pictures. Several were of a Russian man brutally murdered, his face somewhat familiar to the agent. He pocketed one for analysis back home. It was when he lifted a picture he saw that underneath, his hand stopping mid-air.   
  
It was the dead man standing with Jack Bristow.   
  
_His source. _  
  
Now sure of the man's identity, he finished tucking the photo away, grabbing the one of the dead man meeting with his girlfriend's father in the pocket along with the first. The implications of these photos here, in this place, planted only after Mitchell had been picked up ran through Vaughn's head. Mitchell wasn't as clean as he'd seemed - he was involved some way. But how? And through who?   
  
His eyes swept over the rest of the pictures, highlighted at a time as his flashlight's beam swung over the table. A few came into view. His heard stopped in his chest.   
  
Sydney. In Russia.   
  
That had to be less that 10 hours ago, which meant this was all planted in this room recently. Very recently.   
  
They knew he would be here.   
  
"Vaughn!"   
  
The shout in his earpiece jolted him harshly back to reality, causing him to wince in the lost silence. He put a hand up to his ear in pain and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. What came out was a strangled cough, his vocal cords burning as he strained them in order to reduce the echo bouncing around the room.   
  
"Jesus, Mike, what the hell is going on down there?" Weiss' voice came though, softer now, laced with worry. Vaughn scooped the rest of the pictures off the table and tucked them into his pocket, dust falling from the edges of the table into the water below. He cursed silently to himself, his mind racing with possibilities, wondering if Sydney had made it home all right, if she was captured somewhere, if _he _ was about to be captured.   
  
With loud coughing already blowing his cover, he stormed through the water, splashes hitting his legs as he hurried for the door, wishing there was some way to talk to Weiss without Apple listening in. If he could get back to the van with the pictures, without Weiss coming down to meet him, and convince Apple that the computer had been moved without giving away his troubled alliance with the Chinese intelligence officer, it would work - would be perfect.   
  
He was inches from the door.   
  
Weiss' rushed breathing pounded in perfect time with his own pulse in his ears, apprehension gripping his heart like a vise. His partner was on his way down, ready to execute their parallel plan and blow any chance of getting out of here clean.   
  
His hand reached for the doorknob.   
  
There was no time! No other way! Vaughn let his hand fly up to his ear, finger pushing the com device implanted there back in all the way, praying there had been some modification made to allow the pair of CIA agents to communicate without anyone listening in. The surface, he discovered to his dismay, was smooth.   
  
"I'm almost there, Mike," Weiss said. His heart sunk. He could see Apple, in his mind, jumping out of the van, a weapon out, ready to hunt them down. The slim chance that she was an ally never played in Vaughn's mind. A coldness descended upon him. Dread.   
  
"Damnit, Weiss," he swore, his voice strained from the coughing. He cleared his throat, forcing his tone to be stronger. "It's a set-up."   
  
The drumming of Weiss' footfalls stopped, his breathing slowing.   
  
Vaughn turned the knob of the door.   
  
Sunlight filtered into the dark room, causing him to blink a few times as his pupils retracted enough to allow him to see.   
  
"Tsk, tsk, Michael," Apple's sultry and smooth English came to him, her slim figure slowly coming into focus. "You haven't learned a thing since we last saw each other, have you?"   
  
"I've learned a bit," he replied, taking a step out of the room. "Have you?"   
  
Apple smiled, her eyes darting from side to side. Vaughn took that moment to look around him in the hallway, coming face to face with four armed guards, the door to the room down the hall wide open.   
  
"Apparently," he quipped, "you have."   
  
//   
  
Weiss had a gym membership; Vaughn convinced him to go in and get one with him, hoping there was some kind of referral deal they could get in on as a way to soften the blow. The Agency gym, while a promising prospect, was a double-edged sword - on one side, it was there, convenient, ready whenever they had the sudden impulse to work out, the other, the humiliation result of coworkers seeing just how out of shape you were. Vaughn was ambitious, his position as a desk jockey unable to dash his dreams of one day becoming a field agent. The gym membership and the bills that accompanied it were a method of motivation he used to keep in shape lest he be noticed and promoted.   
  
His best friend had paid for a month; made sure his partner got his 30% off, and promptly lost his membership card. He was content with his position behind a desk, electing to use his intellect instead of his brawn. Plus, he loved sweets too much.   
  
The discarded gym membership was the first thing that came to mind when he rushed down the back service hallway, knowing he could move faster than he currently was if only he'd gone. When he clambered down the stairs into the dim hallway, he swore he'd start going if only he got out of there alive.   
  
Gun. Find your gun.   
  
Vaughn, cornered, had no chance if he pulled his sidearm out now; 4 men plus Apple holding weapons on him cemented this. But Weiss was free - he could leave at any time. He had a clear shot. His hand itched, slowly moving to his side.   
  
"Don't, Eric," Apple warned, her eyes sweeping over to him. The guards foolishly followed her movement, human curiosity rearing its ugly head over orders or programming.   
  
"Don't what?" he asked, smiling. The moment those words flew out of his mouth, Vaughn took advantage of the guards poor move, his gun flying out from its position hidden at his side, flying into the air with the grace of a turtle, the only fuel behind it his will to see another day. Apple turned, horrified, only to see Vaughn gun down one of the men, the bullet passing through his side and sending him to the ground.   
  
She cried out, angered by her lack of control, heading for the CIA agent as he stood just outside the door to the previously locked room. Weiss, with the attention split between himself and his partner, grabbed his gun from where he had been reaching for it and fired, another man stumbling as he was hit in the shoulder. The third charged up the stairs at him; Weiss' eyes widen as he turned and ran up the stairs into the dim back hallway.   
  
Vaughn backed into the room, his feet sending water up into the air as Apple chased after him, one of her men following her. Running backwards, he bumped into the table, cursing as he did so, only narrowing escaping Apple's attempted right hook. The henchman clambered in, the door shutting behind him.   
  
The room was sent into darkness.   
  
..   
  
Weiss wasn't a fighting man. At least when it came to hand to hand combat. The last time he'd gotten into some kind of altercation involved a large amount of alcohol and a beautiful dancer name Miffy.   
  
Needless to say, even then, he had lost.   
  
So as he ran down the darkened hallway, the sounds of men yelling and rushing out the front doors of the establishment, he had no doubts in his mind that if it came to fighting without weapons, he was done for.   
  
The man continued to peruse him, bullets ricocheting off the walls all around him, flecks of drywall dotting Weiss' hair. He turned, letting a few shots go, none of them meeting their mark.   
  
Weiss cursed and kept running, the back door in sight.   
  
..   
  
Even Apple and her remaining henchman failed to stay silent in the dark room. They swept around the table, guns held in front of them, looking for their target. Vaughn climbed into the card table and held a hand over his mouth, his breathing silent.   
  
The table wasn't that strong.   
  
He could hear the metal legs squeaking, aching under his weight, praying in his mind that they would hold long enough for Apple to make a mistake of some kind in order to give him the upper hand. Eyes open, only able to make out dim shapes moving around in the darkness, he waited, heart pounding in his ears.   
  
The henchman bumped into the table clumsily, the legs finally collapsing. With a surprised cry, it fell out from under him, his hands making the move to grab onto the pipes above him before he even gave it a thought.   
  
He hung in the air, knowing they'd find him any second.   
  
..   
  
Weiss burst out the back door into the alleyway beyond, the van yards down the narrow street to his left. The back door remained open, left in that state by Apple as she rushed out of it and into the club. Weiss turned a head over his shoulder, the man chasing him shielding his eyes from the light. Left. Go left!   
  
Using all his strength, Weiss ran for the van and the hope of getting a call of some kind out to the CIA. His feet pound against the poorly paved road, his heart straining to keep him at a constant speed. He turned to look over his shoulder again, alerted to the man's entrance into the ally by his loud manner and the shower of bullets that raced at him.   
  
He turned a moment too late, and had forgotten about the third man.   
  
The man stood in front of the van and slammed the door, and essentially Weiss' hope for assistance, shut, a large smile on his scared face. A gun in his hand, he went for the kill shot.   
  
..   
  
"Come, now, Michael," Apple said, her voice attempting to sound smooth through her overwhelming anger. "How long do you really think you can hold on?"   
  
_She's right _, he observed wryly, his arms shaking under the unexpected strain. How long could he hold on before dropping to the ground and two armed enemies? There was more splashing in the water, large, sloppy steps that could only belong to Apple's support.   
  
Something grabbed his leg.   
  
"And how long can you hold on," Apple almost laughed, "when you're being pulled down?"   
  
She did have a point there.   
  
..   
  
Weiss ducked and took a shot, hoping it would hit his attacker. With his head to the ground, he heard the man cry out and fall against the utility van, the sound of hit metal something he remembered from his earlier years full of car accidents and bumps. He stood only to be hit from behind by the second man, who had quickly closed the distance between them in the time Weiss had used to shoot his other attacker.   
  
He reeled, falling back a few steps into the side of another building, his gun slipping from his hand as the man coming in for another shot at him. Weiss' eyes widened, searching the alleyway for the gun. He saw it, the gun having traveled to the down man, inches from his fingertips. The man, half-lying on the ground reached out for it, getting closer with every second that elapsed.   
  
..   
  
A final yank down on his legs had almost pulled his arms out of their sockets, and probably would have if he hadn't let go. Vaughn fell to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs, his already injured ankle crunching under the fall. Fire spread up through it, a pain he pushed desperately to the back of his mind, wrapping it up in a ball to be dealt with later. In order to feel the pain, he had to make sure there was a later.   
  
It caused him to go down to one knee, water soaking his pants as Apple stood over him, the sound of a hammer being pulled filling his ears. She was above him, a smug smile on her face. The man with her stood on the other side of him.   
  
Mustering everything, he swung up with his downed leg, hitting the man square in the stomach. Surprised, he doubled over, giving Vaughn the window of opportunity to slam his elbow on the base of the man's neck. He fell to the water below, Vaughn now spinning around to grab Apple's gun and shoot the man, turning to point the gun on Apple.   
  
His heavy breathing filled the room. Until she laughed.   
  
"Really, Michael, you've learned some new tricks," she said, her laughter filling the room. The gun shook in his hands, his leg threatening to collapse underneath him, the pain in his ankle overwhelming. There was no way he could run out of her; he had to take her down before leaving, hoping Weiss had gotten away in one piece.   
  
"You're not with Chinese intelligence," he said, the thoughts rolling around in his head for the past day finally facing the accused. Apple smirked and shifted, a hand resting on a jutted out hip. She looked as if she owned the room, owned the situation, and even though it was Vaughn with the gun in his hand and finger on the trigger.   
  
The man on the ground stirred a bit. Vaughn reflexively kicked back with his foot, hitting the man in the head and pushing him back to the water. He winced as he brought his foot back to his side, letting it hover just above the water.   
  
"No," Apple replied, her eyes drifting to the injured ankle, "I am."   
  
"And what, you've decided to take a side job? Pay me back for all that trouble I caused you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.   
  
"You know as well as I do the world runs on money."   
  
"I can't let you out of here," he told her. She grinned, the irony of the situation hitting her; her odd, morbid sense of humor breaking free.   
  
"Last time, I was the one who said that," she retorted through strained laughter. He smirked.   
  
"And look how effective it was."   
  
"A mistake I was hoping to correct this time around. But it seems as though you now have the upper hand."   
  
"Astute," he growled in her general direction. The darkness was almost suffocating in it tangibility, and he wasn't sure he could hit her even if he came to the point where conversation was trite and action was required.   
  
The man behind him rose.   
  



	21. Vinculum Part C

**Chronic Vertigo  
**Chapter 7: Vinculum [Part C]  
  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Action/Adventure  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
Author's Note: Glenna and Jen make my writing coheirent. Without them, it wouldn't make any sense. I'm posting here since sd-1 is still down, and my readers deserve the next chapter.  


* * *

  
He was never supposed to be a field agent.  
  
It was through a strange sequence of events on which Eric Weiss was sent on his first mission. Confined to the hot, cramped interior of an industrial van in Italy, wiping sweat from his brow as he pushed exhaustion to the side and made something out of the fuzzy images on his multiple monitors. Accompanying a young agent, a man two years his junior who had, somehow, managed to catch up to him career wise was not Weiss' happiest assignment, and as he sat in that van with the sunlight slowly baking him like a potato, he felt that somehow, he was now the underdog.  
  
He had a fleeting feeling that his partnership was constructed to give some push in the right direction, that direction being one of obedience and respect for the rules. A rebel since youth, Eric had always felt jokes and lightheartedness were the way to get through life, his favorite quote 'Why take life so seriously? You're not going to get out of it alive.' His childlike spirit and less than serious demeanor had been interpreted by his superiors as a type of disrespect for the agency, something they hoped to rectify, since his analytical skills were an asset they most certainly desired.  
  
So he found himself there, watching this young, ambitious agent run through the hallways of a Italian research institute, their target – a disk full of information detrimental to the US intelligence and their technology - clutched in a white-knuckle grip. A bruise was already forming over his left eye, coupled with a gash from a guard's ring. It was Weiss' own animosity towards the entire situation that kept him from giving the clearest of directions, and as the agent came under the attack of another group of men, he felt no need to warn him of the rapidly approaching dead end. He felt, right then, that if the boy failed, he would no longer be seen as the wunderkind of French-American descent, and Weiss would be allowed to get back to his work where he belonged.  
  
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, watching the show before him. Moves he could never dream of using were utilized in the junior agent's defense, and right before his eyes, Weiss could see why he had rose through the ranks so quickly. Fully able to defend himself, the agent took out a guard pinning him to the wall and flashed Weiss a smile and thumbs up in the security camera, all dimples.  
  
In that moment, Weiss realized he would never be rid of him. And as the agent came clambering back to the van, smiling and cracking jokes with Weiss even though he knew what he'd done - putting him in harm's way - he'd decided he'd make it up to him, no matter how many years it took.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
Weiss was thankful he had a good memory, and as the second attacker under Apple's employ – and who else's? – pinned him against the wall, he prayed his older and more weighed down body could imitate that movement of Vaughn's from so long ago. What was it again? Remember!  
  
The man's arms were on his shoulders, pushing him against the wall with the power of a bulldozer, Weiss swearing his bones would break under the force. Grab his elbow with your hands , he remembered, and reached up with both hands, lacing fingers together on each side of his elbow, and twisted. The man groaned, but the threat of dislocation from the Hapkido move pulled the man down, his other arm releasing Weiss's shoulder as he attempted to defend himself. With the man bent over, Weiss kneed him in the solar plexus and left the man gasping for breath doubled over as he ran to retrieve his gun.  
  
Weiss kicked the injured man reaching for his gun a few times and whirled around, holding it on the other man.  
  
"Who -" he asked, regaining his breath, astounded the movement had worked. And was so easy! "- are you working for?"  
  
The man laughed. "You believe I will tell you?"  
  
"I would, if in your position."  
  
"No you wouldn't. American, you would say, what is it? Name, rank, serial number?" he retorted, sarcastic. The infiltration of American war cinema seemed to have a reach as far as the orient, the slightly inflated stories giving the Asian realm a biased and inaccurate view of the western world.  
  
"Seeing as I don't have one…" he mused.  
  
"Neither do I. A hired man keeps no identity."  
  
"Your employer does. Who? And how did they know we were here?"  
  
"Fools. Fools are always easy to predict."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Weiss asked, taking a step closer to the man, wondering what he was alluding to in his broken English.  
  
The man smiled. A small bit of information, and he'd trapped the CIA agent.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
The first thing he felt was a sharp pain in the back of his neck.  
  
Alerted to the man's new awakened status, Vaughn fired blindly into the darkness, hoping one shot would hit Apple and allow him to run for the door and the light beyond. He heard a few bullets hit the walls, but didn't count the discharged bullets, not knowing how many had hit his target. He ran as if his life depended on it, the heavy, confused footsteps of the other man behind him. The knocks to the head had taken their toll on the goon, and while running through the darkness, he still found himself unable to focus, to move his legs.  
  
Vaughn threw open the door and let the sunlight flood over him.  
  
Ignoring momentary blindness, he ran, flat out, for the stairs and the outside world.  
  
No one, he realized to his eternal happiness, was following.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
"Think. Who told you to come here?" Weiss' attacker asked, drawing him in; a spider capturing a fly. Weiss pondered the answer to the question, but said not a word. A cardinal rule, learned on the first day, was not to reveal any information while extracting as much as you could. It was obvious, he reflected, that this man knew exactly who had sent them there.  
  
Which meant, again, Mitchell was not who he seemed.  
  
It was a strange circle of interconnecting events that brought the CIA to the status of trusting the shady man, a decision not made lightly. Service to the CIA was like service to the Marine Corps, solid, steadfast dedication to home and country without question, the act of mutiny or desertion seen as an offense punishable by death. Those seen as traitors, while not always brought to the law, were never trusted and often left for dead if the circumstances called for it. It was only through Mitchell's last minute pardon agreement, brokered by a world on the edge of nuclear war, that he was trusted to any degree even in the modern day.  
  
But once a traitor, always a traitor.  
  
The full weight of the situation came tumbling down upon Weiss' shoulders, and if he weren't fueled by adrenalin, he might have shifted under the new burden. Lead like cattle to the slaughter, the CIA had played right into his plans. Sloane's plans.  
  
No , he shook his head, the CIA hadn't. Vaughn had.  
  
"Shit," he swore, now standing inches in front of the goon.  
  
What was the saying? Divide and conquer? From the beginning, Apple had split them up, making sure there was no way Weiss could get to his friend until the instant she wanted him to, and the instant he reached Vaughn, the guards looked at him. Looked right at him. Damn it! She told them to, practically gave Vaughn the opening to attack, and send him off in a separate direction than that of his partner, effectively separating them.  
  
"Vaughn!" he screamed into his earpiece, unintentionally turning his back on the still-standing guard. "Damn it, Mike, where are you?"  
  
He headed for the back door; hand pressed to his ear as if that would will Vaughn's response from it. Forgetting the man he had been fighting only seconds before, Weiss' brotherly concern for his partner took precedent in his mind. The air was thick with the smell of decay, of rot, finally noticeable as his mind cleared, no longer locked into a survival instinct. Almost suffocating, it smothered his senses as his rushed steps echoed in the ally, heart rushing.  
  
It took a moment before he realized the rushed beating was not his heart slamming against his chest, but the running steps of the man he'd forgotten, gaining speed as their neared Weiss. He turned, almost coming face to face with the attacker, eyes wide as he stood like a deer in headlights, frozen to the spot with nothing to do.  
  
The man fell back in a splash of blood and heated metal, falling to the ground in a heap of flesh and bones, three bullets sizzling in his chest.  
  
He eyed the dead body at his feet, then turned, grinning.  
  
Once again, Vaughn had saved him, standing awkwardly in the doorway to the club, gun held strong in two hands before him. He was breathing hard, result of running down the hallway, frantic as he heard Weiss' cry through the still-functioning COM link.  
  
"Thanks, man; he came from nowhere," Weiss sighed, wiping his brow for extra melodramatic value. Vaughn smirked and pushed off the door jam, eyeing the two bodies lying out in the sunlight. An eyebrow rose quizzically.  
  
"You're been busy," he commented, approaching Weiss. His steps, which started straight and sturdy, suddenly deviated, crossing over into a drunken slur of a walk, pushing him over into the rear wall of the infiltrated club unexpectedly. A hand coming out to push off the building's offered assistance was waved off. Where as a moment ago he appeared the valiant savior, covering his partner's back just as he should, he morphed before Weiss' eyes into a drunken man attempting to walk the line on the side of a busy Californian highway. Like the officer observing such an attempted feat, Weiss' expression darkened, unsure of what exactly transpired as he'd battled the leftover hired men out on the surface.  
  
Weiss forced back the urge to take a step forward and assist. "You okay?" he asked instead, desperately trying to keep his tone light.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Just a little dizzy, that's all," Vaughn retorted, coming to equilibrium. His eyes locked onto the wriggling man leaning against their ticket out of the stinking ally, moving like he would be able to out-crawl the two recovered agents. He was no match, the pair upon him like hunting vultures encircling their dying pray.  
  
There were some questions that needed to be answered.  
  


* * *

  
Sydney bounced into the JTF, strutting like back in high school and the cutest boy in school had just asked her out. Of course, with the recent events occurring in the government secret-keep, it was easy to fit the analogy to the spy's life at the moment, her mind filled with activities for the eve of her boyfriend's return. Her sleek brown hair that was anything but ordinary was pulled into a high, swinging pony tail, and she looked the perfect picture of contentment and ease, no worry lines crossing her face. Smiling at coworkers as she headed for her father, standing at a com station across the room, she sparkled in the otherwise bleak darkness that surrounded the space.  
  
Inside was another matter.  
  
If it were possible, she'd say her veins were twisted into knots, wrapping around her lungs and keeping breath from her. Tight and constricted, she put on her best face to keep hidden the apprehension and fear that gripped her, the knowledge that her love was out in the field, his life threatened by a notorious force she had seen in action wrecking havoc on her.  
  
Better to feel this than nothing at all , she mused, approaching her father's side.  
  
"What's up?" she asked brightly, her smile faltering as her father turned to face him, his permanent scowl even deeper than usual, lips drawn into a straight line.  
  
"Vaughn and Agent Weiss are an hour late with their call-in," he stated simply, Kendall stnading behind him with a gaze intent on a screen. Sydney took a breath, as deep a one as she could, lungs tightening even more so than before. It this was how Vaughn had felt each and every time she was off on a mission, she was surprised he hadn't died of suffocation yet. That, she added, remembering her restless night, or exhaustion. "We've been trying to reach them but so far, we've hit nothing but static."  
  
"That could mean a number of things. There's no reason to assume something's happened," Sydney replied, moving in to become part of the semi-circle collected around the young tech's desk, arms crossed over her chest.  
  
"They were asked to accompany an agent from Chinese Intelligence, a Shu Apple Cho," Kendall spoke up, finally acknowledging Sydney's presence. "We just received this from her agency." The tech sitting before them took his cue and pulled up a dossier, obviously quickly translated from the original Chinese from the mistakes in simple grammar. She wished they had left it alone – for her, at least, it would have been easier to understand than interpreting this garbled English.  
  
Her eyes, naturally, drifted to the tagged and highlighted lines.  
  
CONFIRMED CONTACTS OUTSIDE SCOPE OF GOVERNMENTAL INVESTIGATIONS.  
  
Despite the diplomatic language, all three agents viewing the screen knew the true meaning of this tag.  
  
Traitor.  
  
This agent, to whom Vaughn and Weiss were trusted, was not who she seemed. The full impact of her father's minced words when she approached became clear and she felt foolish for her faked happiness despite her father's visible warning. The failed check-in, mandatory for agents without back-up in order to assure their security, was something Vaughn, aptly nicknamed Boy Scout, would not miss no matter how much Weiss asked him to postpone it for a quick bite to eat. His failure to do so, coupled with the announcement from the corroborating government meant only a few things, possibilities Sydney didn't want to face.  
  
"So, what are our options?" she posed with an even tone.  
  
"The closest team is in India. It will take then 3 hours to reach Hong Kong if they left now," Jack reported. Sydney shook her head.  
  
"That's too long. We need someone there now!" Her temper was rising, eyes narrowing. Being used to Kendall's disregard for the agents under her and her father's stonewalling didn't mean she had to accept it, her anger intensifying because of these facts.  
  
"Agent Bristow, we are doing what we can, which isn't much right now, I admit that," Kendall replied. "But we're doing everything we can."  
  
"Which is nothing."  
  
"Now – "  
  
"Sydney, I'm sure there is some reasonable explanation for the missed call," her father interjected, falling easily into his role as referee between his passionate daughter and her argumentative boss. "In the mean time," he continued, leading Sydney slowly from Kendall's earshot with his movements, "I have something else I need to show you."  
  
"What? What is it?"  
  
"The FBI was investigating the task force William Vaughn was on."  
  
A deep breath left Sydney. First, her own parents under investigation, now Vaughn's? What kind of sick cycle controlled their lives?


	22. Myopic Part A

* * *

**Chronic Vertigo**  
Chapter 8: Myopic_ [Part A]_  
by Kira 

* * *

**Author's Note**: Perhaps one of my favorite chapters, and I'm very glad I finally got to post it. Many thanks to Twinnie for the French help and Carmen_sandiego & Jen, my incredable beta team. Also, Papergirl, you rock. I'm editing around you from now on. ;) For Molly, since she asked for the update. 

"I need access to some secured files." 

The man sitting across from Sloane wasn't one worth remembering, his bland features blending into the backdrop of the crowded Roman street like a wallflower. His eyes were vacant, cold and detached, as if he weren't listening to a word spoken at the table.

"What kind of security are we talking about?" Thick Italian accent, matching perfectly with the chorus of voices surrounding the small patio set on the edge of one of Rome's numerous squares, shrines to artists long dead and a past many strived for.

A path of domination.

It was for that reason Arvin Sloane always felt at home in the Italian capitol, the richly ordained city a testament to real, raw power. Once the seat of an empire the stretched across two continents and threatened more, the city seemed frozen, living on borrowed time until it could once again be used in proper fashion. It was a power Sloane wished to one day possess himself.

He took a sip of his drink, an Italian soda made to taste like the cherries his wife would pick on warm Tuscan days, and smiled. "Nothing difficult. They're on a network in Kuala Lumpur, under the care of an import export firm with holdings in Germany." Sloane tossed a black folder across the table with practiced ease, the man looking over his shoulder before picking it up.

"Grün Austäusche is located in the industrial side of Kuala Lumpur, uncharacteristic for a trading company. This has lead me to believe it serves a duel purpose," Sloane explained, a voice-over for the file his new contractor was now reading. The man continued reading, his voice muffled as it was directed at the folder and its contents.

"Duel purpose?" he asked, the desire to know more overwhelming. Why had he been contacted after all these years?

"It is believed the whearhouse is hiding a server containing classified information."

"CIA information, you mean," the man inferred. He leaned forward on the table, animated for the first time since sitting at the table for a quick lunch. "Don't you have regulars you use for these kinds of operations?"

Sloane sighed, apprehensive to a point. "It has come to my attention that my current employees may not be entirely trustworthy."

"And you trust an outsider?"

"We speak the same language," Sloane replied, smile faiding. "I'm paying you for your discression in this matter."

Joseph Bianchi leaned back and crossed his arms, observing the man before him, wondering what was really going on, and more importantly, what he wasn't being told. A securities expert by trade, Bianchi felt it was slightly ironic that his nondescript appearance was intensified by his surname, a name meaning light or white in his native Italian. And in essence, he wished to remain a blank canvas to others. What was going on inside his head, what plan he was up to next remaining a mystery to those who wished to employ him. He felt, after all these years, he was good at it.

But the man across from him was better.

Bianchi could get nothing from the outwardly normal appearance of his new employer and sighed. It was harder for him, a devote Catholic raised near Rome by a strict mother, to take on assignments he knew little about. With the chance for an innocent's death looming in the unknown. But money was money, and Sloane was correct in assuming this amount would keep Bianchi's silence.

"What's my time frame?" he asked, sliding the folder close. Documents for a latter time.

"Two days. I need certain files from those computers before a systematic cycling," Sloane retorted, his smile returning. "The information is cycled through the servers every day. I have managed to get the codes for access on Thursday. I hope I've given enough time for preparation?"

"More than enough," Bianchi replied.

"Good. Care to stay for lunch?"

//

"I think we should have left 'im," Weiss declared through a stuffed mouth. Vaughn wrinkled his nose at the smell of Chinese noodles filling the already cramped van, and wondered for a moment if it were that or the stench of blood oozing from the captured guard withered in a seat behind him that made his stomach turn. Weiss shoved another mouthful of noodles in his mouth. Apparently, not even a prisoner to interrogate would keeping him from his favorite food.

"That would have been great," Vaughn retorted wryly. "What would we say to the police when they arrived? Oops?"

"Somethin'. We've got badges," Weiss shrugged. Vaughn let out a short laugh. "You're thinking of that Cheech and Chong line, aren't you?"

"Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges."

Weiss broke out, laughing, Vaughn's straight-laced, book-learned English that had evolved over the years still lacked that natural flow, never more apparent than when he chucked a sentence full of slang and attempted to sound ethnic. Suffice to say, it never came out exactly how he wanted. The comedic value was intensified, and Weiss slammed a hand against his mouth to keep him from spitting out (and wasting) his food.

The van swerved a bit.

"You sure you're okay?" Weiss called to the front seat from where he sat in the nook made by the side wall and the passenger seat to oversee their silent prisoner.

"Yeah. Just a bit dizzy, that's all."

"Pull over, I'll drive."

"We're almost there," Vaughn retorted, voice groggy and thick with exhaustion. He sounded haunted and hollow, to his indefinite disappointment; he thought he was younger yet, able to do these things without age catching up to him.

"Feeling tired?"

Vaughn looked over his shoulder, eyes torn from the road by an astute observation by a man who could not see. The prisoner shifted, his dark eyes boring into Vaughn's wavering gaze with the level of malice expected from an angered child.

"And dizzy? Tell me, American, what happened before you killed my partner?" he taunted, his grin toothless. Vaughn re-directed his eyes to the road, using the blank instinctive side of his mind to drive as he attempted to recall the answer to the prisoner's seeminly insane question. It came as shattered images, a sweet, delicious stream of nothingness pouring through his veins, flowing to his mind. Calmness. He noticed then the throbbing in his ankle had stopped, the offending joint now quiet.

"Vaughn? What's going on?" Weiss spoke through the silence. The captured man laughed – a deep, hollow, cold laugh that caused Weiss to shutter and retreat into his crevasse.

"Fools," the man exclaimed, "fools all of you!"

Weiss had a feeling this wasn't the funny clown type of fool being discussed.

//

"Director! Agent Bristow! We've got a call!"

It was Sydney who arrived first, practically ripping the tech's ear off as she yanked his headset off and fixed it on her own head. Kendall scowled at her unprofessional outburst but stayed silent as he found a discarded headset of his own.

"Hello?" Sydney asked tenatively, her voice rushed and tight as if she couldn't completely believe she was standing here. That everything was okay. If there was one thing this life had taught her over the years, it was that the worst usually happens.

"You're back early," Vaughn's tired voice replied. She could see him, sitting there on the flight home, a lopsided grin on his lined and weary face.

"Yeah. Was no problem. What about you? Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Just a bit tired."

"What about Cho?" Kendall jumped in, giving Sydney a blank stare as she glared at him for interrupting her conversation. His job was his job, and no agent was going to keep him from performing it.

"She turned out to be working for, for Sloane or Irina. There were pictures of Sydney and Dixon on their mission in Russia," he explained. Weiss, seated across the aisle from him, looked up as Vaughn rambled off unimportant details. 

He's stalling. Eric deduced, giving the uncooperative prisoner two seats behind him an over the shoulder glance. He wanted to know what knowledge he possessed that could help his friend – such as when the question and answer session was going to start.

It was so insane, it was almost laughable – certifiable, for an ironic word choice. Working inside the CIA for as many years as he had, it was almost impossible to avoid the topic of memory and its alteration. Since as early as the 1950's, the FBI had been fascinated with the vulnerability of the human mind and memory, viewing the pair as a toy they'd just figured out how to modify. Armed with groups of psychologists and medical doctors, they began to 'play.'

Memory, to them, became a block of clay, moldable to their twisted desires. Detached from the psychological effects of their actions, the FBI would change and alter what operatives and sources remembered when the contents of such memories were deemed highly classified or controversial. Dangerous in practice, the methods were used only under extreme circumstances.

But their counterparts weren't.

The methods for retrieving memory were derived directly from those of alteration and just as inhumane. Recovered memory is worth more than eyewitness testimony in the intelligence world, and thus, psychologists specializing in memory retrieval became needed not only by the FBI, but other agencies as well, including the CIA. Deemed a necessary evil by directors, these foggy pieces of clay could be reshaped and retrieved.

A side effect, or spin off, was discovered in the late 60's by a psychologist on loan from Harvard to the FBI for his expertise on memorie retrieval. After researching the FBI's projects, he deduced that not only could they alter and implant memories, but could hide them as well. In effect, lock them away for future use. The subject would be oblivious to their existence, and thus, unable to retrieve them on their own.

The key, he said, was in memory strands.

Memories are normally retrieved by a sensory trigger – a smell, sound, taste, sight, or even a touch – that reminds one of a memory. A link exists, a kind of card in an old library card catalogue that connects the consciousness to a stored memory. This connection is a strand, or memory strand. The Harvard psychologist deduced that if a memory occurred, or could be implanted, so could a sensory trigger in the form of words. A password to unlock a memory holding information. 

But what about regression techniques that battered the mind, probing until it found what it was looking for? The day before his departure, he gave them the simple answer: layers. If the memory was layered, one part atop another, then regression would simply unearth the first, more nostalgic layer and stop there, unable to go any deeper. Like any regression, the danger lie in how far the probe went, and how chopped up the psyche lie when finished. With the amount of digging needed to even approach the second layer, there was no telling how coherent the information would be when it finally came out.

The FBI, in the end, deemed the risks too dangerous and terminated that phase of the project.

..

"App – Cho attempted to interrupt the operation for her employer," Weiss heard Vaughn say lethargically, leaning his head back against the headrest. "We're waiting until we return to LA before we ask any questions."

"Good call, Agent Vaughn. What's your ETA?" If he weren't so tired, Vaughn might have smiled at the rare compliment from the FBI director. Instead, he took it in stride and let his eyes slip closed, thankful the only person who could see him was Weiss, and a comment about sleeping on the job would only be hypocritical on his part.

"5 hours," he sleepily replied, feeling a fog close in on the edge of his consciousness. A thick, soft, comforting fog that was begging to be embraced. He rubbed the base of his neck absentmindedly as voices continued to speak his ear, the last thought he had before sleep came was that of concern, the skin on the back of his neck swollen in such a way he did not remember.

//

Sark had never liked Italy.

There was a smile off his face nonetheless.

He leaned against an outer wall of the Pantheon, watching with fake interest as couples and families passed, entering the famous Roman monument. The circular building, complete with a hole in the roof often referred to as the Devil's Hole, from when the Devil broke in, had begun as a monument to mother earth when Rome was still a pagan city. The visitors now wished to see the statues testament to human achievement under the impression it was a Christian building.

A place of shady alliances, a past held by ancient dueling religions in this city of world domination; perfect for this meet to the point of irony.

"He took your bait," Bianchi drawled, reading a map a few steps away from Sark. "Has an operation planned out for Munich, tomorrow."

"Good," Sark replied discreetly. "I'll pass that to my employer." He took a few steps forward and paused just when he stood even with Bianchi. "Now, tell me where you're really going." 

//

"Vaughn, _Vaughn_, c'mon, wake up," Sydney gently coaxed, shaking his shoulder. She bent over his chair as CIA agents collected the prisoner and led him from the plane. Weiss departed with them, mumbling something about a stomachache and too much Chinese food, leaving Sydney alone in the open cabin. Slumbering before her, head rolled to the side, was Vaughn, his breathing slower than normal, but nothing to be concerned about. Oblivious to the world with his headset still on, he appeared almost childlike.

His unresponsiveness during the call-in had only helped to deepen her worst fears, and for a few heart-pounding moments, she felt as if the floor would fall from beneath her and send her plummeting into her own personal hell. But Weiss' calm affirmation that he had simply fallen asleep had quelled her fears a little, though she remained surprised by the uncharacteristic move.

Something, she decided, was off, and she'd accompanied the retrieval agents to the plane.

"Michael, you have to wake up now," she tried again, his first name falling clumsily from her tongue. He stirred, his head falling to the other side and hitting her hand. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, or perhaps concern as her warm hand came in contact with chilled skin. The cabin was warm; she'd already taken off her overcoat.

"Laisse-moi dormir, (Let me sleep)" he mumbled, and turned over in the seat. Turned over. She half-expected him to curl up and start sucking his thumb. She, instead, laughed and sat down next to him.

"Il faut se lever maintenant. (You have to get up now)" _Two can play at this game _, Sydney thought. But in the back of her mind, a warning sign went up. While, like every woman, she loved the husky use of French when used by her fluent boyfriend, the unintentional use of his mother tongue was rare; his devotion to his job and father's memory a constant deterrent from the use of his mother's language. If something was wrong, and this was no ordinary sleep, coaxing him from a dream land would be easier if she played along, and for once, she was thankful for her comprehensive knowledge of the language.

"J'ai vraiment pas envie de me lever, (I really don't want to get up)" was his whispered reply, but she could already see the layers of sleep cracking, his green eyes slowly opening and focusing on her. He sighed but didn't move, just looked at her and smiled. "Geeze," he yawned,   
"how long have I been out?" he asked.

Sydney frowned. "Aren't we the linguist today?" she quipped, leaning against the back of the seat. Worry lines appeared, confusion evident on his face.

"Hrmm?" he purred. Sydney reached with her free hand and brushed back from his forehead into his hair, a stroke that brought her hand to cup his face. He leaned into her, thankful for the warm touch, for her presence. For her.

"Now who talks in their sleep," she laughed, "you were! I told you to wake up, and out comes French."

"Oh," he muttered, cheeks reddening, "that."

"That what?"

He shook his head slightly, so not to loose contact with her hand. "Nothing really. You probably told me it was time to wake up."

"I'm sensing a story," she replied. He sighed and sat up, elbows on knees as he bent his head downward, two hands running through his hair, then down to rest over his eyes.

"Every morning, my mother would say that, to get me to school on time. Always in English, like my dad," he replied, head still bent. "I guess it's just become a natural reaction. I was out like a light!"

He'd expected her to laugh but the plane was deathly quiet.

Concerned, he turned his head upwards, in her direction, but she bent over his neck, pushing him down again. He grimaced, body stiff from sleeping in the same position the entire flight, but complied.

"What?" he asked, voice harsh, concerned.

Sydney's eyes widened, fingers brushing away the fine hair at the back of his neck, wishing her eyes were playing tricks on her.

A needle puncture mark lie at the base of his neck. His sleep, as she had feared, was not due to simple exhaustion.

//

"Were you successful?"

Apple Cho stood on the front deck of the Hong Kong-Kowloon ferry, long black hair flowing behind her in the wind. She picked, annoyed, at the bandage on her upper arm and growled under her breath; it hurt like hell.

"I was," she replied.

"Good. The money will be deposited in your account. You have the thanks of my employer."

"Anything to get back at that bastard," Apple bit out, her anger showing through her emotionless mask.

"We'll call if we require your services again." And the caller hung up.

Apple gazed across the ocean as she pocketed the cellular phone, part of her feeling sorry for what she had done. _What goes around comes around, _ she told herself, but part of her still regretted her actions. Apple had seen first hand the effects of her bodyguard's injection on others, one of the reasons why she'd handed the needle off to him instead of doing it herself. Sleep, she hoped, would come easier knowing she was not directly responsible.

Apple pushed those thoughts from her mind as she appreciated the Chinese sunset.


	23. Myopic Part B

**Chronic Vertigo**  
Chapter 8: Myopic  
_Part B _

They couldn't, justifiably, cell Mitchell and their newest prisoner together, but were running out of options. With the prisoner, dubbed Mute due to his refusal to speak, still secure down in Medical Services, Director Kendall paced back and forth in his office, running down the list of available rooms in the JTF. An empty office or storage room with a guard would have to do, as putting two prisoners together, free to exchange information was a breach of CIA protocol, as well as incredibly stupid. 

An aide poked his head in the open door to the director's large office, gripping the doorjamb as if it would keep him safe from misdirected wrath. "They've finished with the prisoner in Medical Services and were wondering where to keep him."

"Are there any agents down there?" Kendall asked. The aide shook his head. 

"None other than normal staff."

"Lock him in an exam room," he answered, sweeping his office before brushing past the aide on his way out. "And find Agents Vaughn and Weiss, tell them to meet me down there."

They had a prisoner to question. 

..

"You can't be serious!" Weiss yelled, slamming the door with such force the glass rattled and threatened to shatter. The blinds continued to clink against it as he crossed his arms and swooped to the other side of the room. Vaughn turned to him, face weary yet furious, brow creased as he yelled back. 

"We were bated, Eric! Pulled in because of what we don't know!" he shouted back, face reddening. "What _I_ don't know!"

"But that's the only failsafe we have. No matter what happens, _no one_ knows everything," Weiss said, standing across from his friend. Vaughn calmed a bit, rubbing his forehead in frustration. Why couldn't Weiss understand, why couldn't he see that as long as he was in the dark, he wasn't safe? Couldn't have a moment's peace of mind? 

He sighed, leveling with Weiss' heated gaze. "Sydney, she...she found something."

"What?"

"Weiss, I can't remember what happened after you left. It's a huge blur, and it's driving me crazy."

"What did she find?" Eric asked with the tone of a rapidly angering mother at an uncooperative child. Guilt ate at him, gnawing at him since the moment he realized Apple had intentionally split them up, the effects of which still unknown to him. Something had to have happened, something worth the trouble. 

Vaughn shifted and moved to sit on the edge of his desk, finding comfort in the added support of the impartial piece of furniture. 

"Injection mark," he breathed, the words sliding into the tense silence, slicing through it with a razor edge. 

_Oh God_, Weiss thought. He'd failed. Somehow, down the line, he'd broken the promise he'd made to himself to protect Vaughn whenever he could. It was silly, he'd told himself time after time, to keep such a commitment even though his crime was not severe, nor known to Vaughn. But there was something about Vaughn; his ability to find trouble where ever he went, his disregard for himself when it came to a choice between himself or others – that called out for some kind of guardian. 

And he'd failed. 

Weiss was sure, when it came to Sydney, Vaughn had never failed her. He was, had to be, a better man than himself.

"Shit, Mike," he swore instead, reserving his thoughts for an inner monologue. "Have you gone to Med. Services? Gotten it checked out?"

"No."

His anger flared again. "Why the hell not?"

"The moment I go in there, I'm out. I'll be stuck behind a desk while you and Sydney run around. Weiss, this is why my father _died_, and there is no way I'm taking a back seat to this investigation!"

"I understand that, but, Jesus, Mike, its suicide!" Weiss matched his thunderous tone. 

"What's suicide?"

Both men turned to the door and the source of the voice to find Sydney standing there, hand still on the knob. She looked unhappy, not so far as to be sporting a frown, but enough for the pair to know their loud voices had carried far beyond the confines of the office into the halls beyond, and she'd overheard everything. 

"Nothing, Syd," Vaughn said automatically, his protective nature taking immediate control. He fought back another wave of nausea, thinking for a moment he should get checked out, but the thought of being stuck here, away from the truth - the reason for his father's death and ultimately the reason he sat in an office at the CIA kept him seated. 

"Nothing?" she asked almost innocently. "Vaughn, the entire office could hear both of you two shouting in here. I want to know what's going on, and I want to know right now."

"Syd, it – "

"Don't," she interrupted him before he could get a word out, holding a hand out to reinforce her words. "Weiss," she turned, looking for an ally, "What is suicide?"

Stuck between a rock and a hard space, his friend and a potential ally in this argument, Weiss glanced at Vaughn before turning to Sydney.

"He lied to Kendall – to all of us," he said slowly. Vaughn took a sharp breath, but neither looked to him. 

"About what?" Sydney asked, pushing past her own apprehension over the possibility of him lying. 

"The journal. He still has it," Weiss finished, looking down to the floor. Betrayal unknown to the one being betrayed was one thing; but to stand before him and do so was horrible, and he had just done it for a second time.

Sydney, now armed with the heart of the argument, turned her flaming gaze to Vaughn He still sat perched on the edge of his desk, a hand resting over his chest. She took two small, measured steps in his direction and crossed her arms. Her breath was even, her voice matching as she spoke; the tip to a deeper, angrier iceberg under the surface. 

"You said you threw it away."

"Listen, Syd, it was...was the only thing I had left of his," he replied slowly, thinking through what he was going to say before speaking. "I did. But later that night, I – "

"You retrieved it."

"Yeah."

"You're not telling me something," she said, narrowing her eyes. The cause of the arguement remained buried, contained in whatever he wasn't telling her. She turned to Weiss, but it was clear by his body language, his downcast eyes, hunched shoulders, that her request for more information would be denied by the agent, the weight of his actions already pressing down on him. She would learn only from Vaughn telling her himself. 

"Sydney," he breathed, rubbing his face, his consciousness a floundering fish out of water. Weiss alone he could handle, but the two of them tag teaming against him was more than he could take at the moment. 

"I can get past that you lied to me – I'm sure you had reason to," she said sternly, "and I can deal with you keeping things from me. But what I cannot take is you sitting there and telling me its nothing when I ask you what is going on."

The words hung in the air like a white elephant sitting in the corner, the meaning of them bearing down on the three with bone-crushing weight. 

"It would be much easier if we knew where where to fine this disk, or whatever it is," Vaughn said softly. 

And explosion occurred, there, in that office. 

"Are you insane?" Sydney screamed, hands coming up to push against his shoulders. Surprised, he fell back and off the side of the desk, catching himself with a hand before he could fall completely to the floor. "Yes," she continued, voice rivaling Weiss and Vaughn's deep ones from before, "why don't we do that? Why don't we go in there, find out the location, and let that be that?" She paused, taking a breath. "Don't forget about the fact that we know _nothing_ about the procedure, or what it could do to you, or, God forbid, Sloane found out through a leak what we know!"

"Now wait a second – "

"Don't you dare!" Sydney cut the now standing Vaughn off, a shaking finger pointing at him, sharp and accusing. "How could you even _begin_ to think about this?"

"How could I? How could I?" he shouted, moving so close, Weiss was sure he'd jab himself in the chest with her finger. "There is something in my head everyone wants! Something, and I don't know what, that is so important my own _father_ did something to me to keep it safe. Yes, it was put there for a reason, but I'm sure he was planning to come and get it out. Too bad your mother killed him before he had the chance!

"So don't come in here all high and mighty, telling me I'm crazy for thinking this. I _am_ crazy, and this is the reason why. I just came back from China, where, after finding pictures of _you_ on the table narrowly escaping capture, I was injected with something. Yes, this is important, but damn it, it's either I take it out and share or die, both of which are looking mighty appealing at the moment!"

He nearly toppled over the searching aide as he stormed out of the office, leaving a stunned Sydney in his wake. 

"Oh God, Weiss," she breathed, a hand covering her mouth, "what has this done to him?"

//

Jack noticed the empty seat immediately, but attributed it to the new prisoner sequestered in Medical Services and wrote it off. He was slightly surprised when Weiss entered, along with Sydney; his opinion of the analyst turned feild support wasn't high, and he doubted his interrogation skills more so than Vaughn's. The pair sat without a word, faces drawn and worried, silently radiating their uneasiness with something. 

With the booming voices echoing out over the workstations in the JTF's main area, Jack had to put little thought into the cause of their drawn expressions.

While he had yet to hear debrief on the mission to China, it could be said things went poorly when it came to their primary objective. While a prisoner had been brought in to give more information on the depth of Sloane and possiblities as to Irina's plan, the grandeur in which they'd exited the country had left more questions than answers, and more covers to be created than forgotten. 

He gave Sydney a slightly reassuring look, the sight of his daughter sad causing his protective side to kick in. She simply glanced back, brown eyes dark and clouded. He frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Kendall's entrance kept him from speaking, his desire to keep things concerning his daughter's welfare from the tightly wound man shutting his mouth. 

The director took a look around. "Where is Agent Vaughn?"

"I assumed he was down with the prisoner from China," Jack spoke up. "He's not?"

"Never arrived," Kendall retorted, noticing Weiss and Sydney sitting patiently. "Agents?"

"We are unaware of Vaughn's location as well," Weiss said almost robotically. Kendall shut his eyes and rubbed his head, wondering what he'd done in a past life to deserve this. 

"Fine." He moved to the head of the room and clicked on the projector, the hum acting as white noise. "We've received information on Sloane's next move, and at this point, well, we have to treat everything as a lead despite our information on Hong Kong."

Weiss blushed a bit, but kept silent. 

"We have reason to believe Sloane has hired this man." Click. "Joseph Bianchi, known securities hacker operating out of Rome, Italy." Click, a 2 year old picture of Bianchi appeared on the screen. "Sources saw them meeting here." Click, a picture of Bianchi seated at the patio café across from Sloane, looking through a folder. "Sloane is sending him after a server farm in Kuala Lumpur in hopes of gaining his own intel on our common target. It seems as if Derevko is reluctant to share information with her partner."

"She was telling the truth," Sydney breathed as an afterthought. Kendall paused and turned to her, wondering now how these people became agents. 

"Excuse me, Agent Bristow?" 

"In Russia," she spoke up, voice shaky not from the matter at hand, but the argument five minutes before. "She said she wasn't working against me, that she was on my side." 

"On your side?" Jack mused, almost sarcastic. 

"If she's not sharing information with Sloane, she has to be working for either herself or us," Sydney said. Kendall pondered that. 

"Agent Bristow, do you realize that Derevko could have tipped Sloane off to all of this?" he asked. "She is the only one who seemed to have anything to gain, and we have confirmation that she has been collaborating with Sloane for the last three weeks."

"So why would she tell him, then keep things from him?" Sydney asked back. 

"Control," Jack spoke up. "By telling Sloane, she not only distracts him from the hunt for Rambaldi, but controls what information he can and cannot have. I wouldn't be surprised if that server farm was hers."

"But that seems to serve a double purpose."

"Sloane is not a stupid man, Sydney. He has to have caught on to Irina's charade by now, and he always has been a man who must come out in first place. She can sit idly by while he finds what she is looking for, then move in when it's most convenient." He frowned, amazed at his child's continuing naivety concerning her mother. "Don't misconstrue her actions to be those of support." 

"In either case," Kendall sighed, "I'm sending Agents Dixon and Weiss to Kuala Lumpur to intercept Bianchi and download the pertinent information for analysis."

"I've been back for two days, I can – "

"Dixon and Weiss are more than qualified, Agent Bristow," Kendall interrupted. 

"I'm not saying they're not, Director Kendall, just that I feel I'm being passed over," Sydney continued. 

"This is far from the end, Sydney," Jack stepped in before Kendall had a change to insight another argument. "Save your strength."

"Hey," Weiss chimed. "She's been back longer than me."

The glare Jack sent the younger agent made Weiss swear never to speak up again, and he suddenly found the shiny tabletop extremely interesting.

"Agent Dixon, you'll be point. Agent Weiss, you'll be on backup. Go in, find Bianchi, get the information, and get out of there as quickly as possible. Intel will be analyzed back home. It is imperative that Sloane never finds out we were there," Kendall explained. The pair listened, eyes reading over specs on the screens before them. 

"Fun," Weiss commented bravely.

That seemed to sum up everything nicely. 

//

"Madrid."

Irina looked up from the documents she was reading over, her brown eyes curious yet analytical. Sark stood, bouncing a bit on his heels before her, impeccably dressed as always. 

"Sark," she said, laying her hands on the table. "How many years have we known each other?"

"Several," he retorted immediately. "Why?"

"Do you believe you can lie to me?"

"No."

"Good. Now, where is he going?" she asked, returning her attention to the documents before her, reading through the Russia and sloppy English like a detective looking for a clue. Sark stayed silent. "If you do anything to deceive me, and thus, harm Sydney," she warned, "I will not hesitate to kill you, understand?"

"Perfectly."

But his voice wavered a bit as he replied. 

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," she continued, collecting the sprawled pages up into one neat pile. "I've found it."

"You have?" Sark asked, surprised. 

"Zuravlev might be a good business man, but horribly unorganized," she said, placing the papers back in their respective folder. "The search took me longer than I expected."

"And?"

"South Africa, Cape Town, to be exact," she answered, finally returning her attention to him. 

"Are you certain?" 

"Positive," she replied, "we leave in three days."

"What about the missing part? And what do you intend to do about Sloane?"

Irina frowned. One side of the equation she knew the answer to, the other troubled her to no end, the answer something she simply could not accept. 

Her daughter was important to her, despite what her father believed, and intentionally harming her was the last thing she ever wished to do. And yet, she had known since that cold fall day over 20 years ago that this was all to happen, that this was the path that had to be walked upon, and nothing could change that. Fate, it seemed, had other plans drafted for her. Sending the one she inevitably must break to the side of her only child a twist of fate. How it pained her, knowing what must occur. 

But it had to be done. 

Resolved, praying her daughter would forgive her, she knew what she had to do. 

"When Sloane finishes with his lead, he will know."

"And Agent Vaughn?"

"We just have to make sure he finds his way to Cape Town."

//

He slid the metal chair across the small, white room, the noise of metal scrapping against tile causing the injured man to wince. The room smelled of disinfectant and sweat, the white walls giving more power to the low wattage bulb in the room, no doubt keeping the prisoner awake. An old yet still useful tactic; keeping the room so bright as to inhibit sleep, letting exhaustion loosen the prisoner's lips before drugs were considered. 

"You're awake," the prisoner said, the first words uttered since passing the threshold. Michael Vaughn chuckled, sat in the chair, and leaned forward. His emerald green eyes usually so clear and determined appeared foggy, cynical, exhausted. 

"Surprised?"

"Extremely," the man shot back on the coattails of Vaughn's question. "I didn't see you around – are you that unconcerned?"

"I expect you'll tell me," Vaughn replied, grinning. He suspected he should be angry, upset, frustrated. Asleep. But he was grinning, happy, euphoric. Confused. Segmented. 

"What makes you think that?"

"You speak very good English," he switched tracks, shrugging off his suit coat. 

"You will not confuse me easily," his subject replied, head rolling to stare at the ceiling. With his wounds recently bandaged, there was little he could do to occupy himself; even with this American asking thing of him, he found himself bored, restless, wishing he could leave and return home. 

But cooperating to the point of being released meant becoming a traitor, a name that would mean the end of his livelihood. 

"It was a compliment," he replied simply, shrugging to intensify his nonchalant manner. American cowboy. 

"I attended college in your country before returning to China."

"So what are you doing in the hired help business?"

"Hard times call for hard choices, Agent Vaughn," he said, rolling his head back to watch the reaction of the man's name being used. There was little movement, his eyes and pupils giving away his momentary surprise. Vaughn sighed, annoyed, and stood, finding the wall opposite the man most interesting. It was foolish of him to come back here, but it was the only place he could think of going where no one would bother him. 

A phrase ran through his head. 

Sharp pain in the back of his head punctuated the end of it, a warning to never say it aloud. And when he'd picked up the journal that night after waking up, he'd no intention of finding the cue; memorizing it only in the rare case it would be needed. Surely, after all these years, no one would be remotely interested in this computer, or information on how to operate it, and the journal had returned to not his junk drawer, but his desk drawer as a personal reminder of his father and purpose in life. 

"Just like the one Agent Cho had to make," the man remarked slowly, drawing Vaughn's attention as if pulling him along with a string. 

"And which one was that?" Vaughn asked tersely, "the one where she betrayed her country, or where she betrayed me?" 

The man was silent for a moment, measuring his words carefully. "You asked yourself that question once, did you not? And in the end, what did you decide?"

He had a point. 

"You must know Apple well, then," he deduced. For a while, between the ages of four and five, Michael Vaughn wanted to be a police officer, and the few interrogations he'd done in his life were the closest he'd ever gotten. "To know something like that."

"I had been working for her six years," the man answered, "she had betrayed you to save her country, a country which gave her no honor for doing so. It was then she decided to betray them in turn, to make up for past mistakes, and hired the four of us."

_Lead him_, she had ordered him, _make him think one thing. Use him for information instead of the other way around_. 

"Who contracted you for this op?" 

"Awfully direct, now aren't we?"

Back still to the man, he leaned against the counter, knuckles white, skin cold as he pushed back nausea again. He didn't remember eating anything while in China, and what he had eaten wasn't enough to make him sick. _Maybe you should have gotten checked out_. Being sick would land him in a bed, like the other occupant of the room, and there he'd be even less involved. 

It came down to faith. 

"The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you get out of here," came the standard line, page 294, section 3; proper negotiation techniques. 

"Cooperation would mean death, and you know that." 

The line rarely worked, which is why Vaughn found it's inclusion in the manual odd, placed there as the first thing you say once you've 'gotten a feel' for the prisoner. One time, he remembered, it had worked, back in the days of his youth when nothing he did deviated from the assigned path. 

But standard lines were all he could remember right now. 

He took a few more shaking breaths, deep, filling breaths that sent blood pumping right once again, and turned to face the man, hands still attached to the counter as if letting go would cause him to weaken. Amazing, what powers humans believed inanimate objects to possess. 

"I do. But it doesn't look like you have many options right now," he remarked, sarcastic. 

"I will, some day. And I live for tomorrow," the man smiled, genuinely. Vaughn cursed under his breath. All he wanted was a name! Sloane's name, Derevko's name! Just say it, he found himself begging of the man. Just say it so I can get out of here and sleep, return home knowing the names of those hunting me down for something I didn't do and never wanted any part of! 

Certainty. He wanted certainty. No more ambiguities or vague clues.

"Just tell me who hired her, and you, and we can let you out of here."

"You're looking a little pale, Agent Vaughn," the man said instead, cutting in on part of Vaughn's statement. The calm feeling had left him, the one that had allowed him to sleep and deal with things. The weight of the world was slowly crashing down on him, and he longed for that previous sensation. 

"I'm fine," he bit out. 

"I can help you," his prisoner whispered, lowering his voice so it could barely be heard over the hum of the lighting above. Vaughn took a step forward, intrigued, giving the guard outside the door a worried glance. The door was locked so the prisoner couldn't escape. 

It also meant he couldn't get out.

Straining himself, the prisoner sat up on the gurney and rolled his neck, sighing with each crack of stiffened bones. He looked no worse for wear, smudges of dirt from the Kowloon alleyway in trace amounts around his eyes the only clue he had been in a different country hours beforehand. Neck looser, he let his hands fall unthreateningly to his lap as Vaughn re-took his seat next to the bed. 

"A name," Vaughn said, "that's all I need."

"You expect Cho to have told me."

"You said yourself you'd been working with her for years," Vaughn tried, rubbing his forehead. 

"I never knew a name," the man confessed, causing Vaughn to look up at him through fine lashes. "Just what he wanted."

"What?"

"He needs a location," the man said, leaning forward. "Do you know it?"

Vaughn was taken back, not by the man's proximity, but by the implication that he knew what was being discussed. 

"Know what?" Vaughn asked, confused. The man clicked his tongue and whistled, leaning back. 

"She was right, you are clueless," he said cryptically, "which is good. I hope you remain so, for your sake."

There was a flurry of movement from the man. Procedure for an injured prisoner was a quick run through a metal detector before being rushed to Medical Services, the prisoner's life taking precedence over searching for materials he wouldn't be able to use in his injured state. His hands moved almost faster than light; Vaughn jumped up out of the chair and backed into the counter, wincing as the metal edge dug into his back. 

_Why weren't you watching his hands?_

The guard outside chatted with the next on duty. 

He had timed it! Watching guard cycles all day kept his mind occupied through the numbing boredom. And these guards were no professionals – simply trained men standing outside a door. Chatting seemed to be a favored activity of theirs. 

Distracted by the metal edging, Vaughn moved only too late to avoid the prisoner. Shoved into the counter by a man with reflexes rivalling his own, he found himself trapped – unable to move – by a man he'd thought lame a minute before. 

"I wish it had been you who'd shot me," the prisoner growled, "and not your friend. Now there are two I must take vengeance on." 

A threat against his own life was one thing, but to threaten his friend, his best friend, was something he would not take. He grabbed the man's upper arms, pulling at them to gain some leyway between the cabinets and the hands holding his shoulders steady against them, but only managed a few inches. His knee bent, foot ready to kick out - 

Then he felt it. 

A sharp prick in the side of his neck that drown out all strength to fight back. His eyes became almost lazy, hanging half closed, all apprehension melting away. The guards ran for the door, keys pulled from pockets, jinggling in the rush to open the door. His vision started to sway, and he moved like a drunkard, swinging his arms up in wide circles in a pathedic attempt to defend himself. 

Then the prisoner swung the chair at his head. 


	24. Myopic Part B

See Prologue for notations and headers. 

* * *

**Chronic Vertigo**  
Chapter 8c 

* * *

He pulled her aside as the meeting let out, keeping out of Kendall's field of vision as the director turned off the projector and reflected upon the discussion as part of some odd post-briefing ritual. Unemotional bastard he might be, but Kendall, thrown into this as an outsider, did a good job of keeping everyone in line and focused at the task at hand. Unfortunately, it also meant he frowned upon shows of personal relationships inside his castle, something Jack himself could oddly respect as his hand pulled on Sydney's elebow. 

"Hey, dad, I – "

He grabbed her arm and gently led her away from prying ears, bringing the pair to a secluded corner of the JTF's main floor. Whilst they no longer needed a bug-killer inconspicuously masked as a pen to communicate, it didn't mean someone wasn't listening. Shielding her from sight, the pair stood to the side, wallflowers in a rapidly moving world. 

"I want you to go with Weiss and Dixon on this mission," he said promptly. Sydney frowned – _where was his support in the meeting!_ - and gave him a quizzical look. 

"Why? What's up?"

"Whatever Sloane is after is related to your mother, not this computer we're chasing around the world," he said, voice soft and terse, as if anyone walking by might be working for the enemy. 

She learned early on not to question her father's astute sense when it came to matters concerning her estranged mother. She attributed it to the years he'd spent as her husband, and while he might now have strained relations with the woman, their relationship was the kind that left him wounded yet open to any news concerning her. Sydney suspected during those years, when he thought Laura had simply died and before he found out the truth, he'd jump at anything, letting his blind intuition guide him. And now, after he'd discovered the truth, found her alive – come_ face to face_ with her – he let it be his compas when it came to her. Part of him, Sydney, the ever-hopeful child, though, cared for her in such a way he would put himself on the line for a gut instinct that might result in her protection. 

Hands on her hips, the solitary daughter of Jack Bristow mulled over his statement in her mind. Knowing her father, a fan of giving her down time between missions, he wouldn't be asking her if he did not feel the matter required immediate attention.

"And you want me there to protect her interests?" she asked, incredulously. "C'mon, dad, not even you care that much."

"I want you to take it," he said quickly. She paused, a deer in headlights. 

"You want me to take what they find and keep it from the CIA?" Her voice was a dangerous whisper, angry and heated. "Are you insane? I can't just come back empty handed!"

"Make a copy," he directed, pulling a disk out of his pocket, "when you're retrieving the information for the CIA." 

She glanced at the disk in his hand, apprehensive. 

"I'll take care of Kendall," he added as an afterthought. Sydney nodded, took the disk, and put it in her pocket, thankful her dress pants had pockets today for once or else she wouldn't have anywhere to conceal the disk as she walked away from him. She opened her mouth to say something, but proptly shut it as four agents, Weiss included, dashed past, running full out with ties flying in the air behind them like in cartoons. She reached out instinctavely and grabbed Weiss' arm.

"What's going on?" she asked. Weiss gave her father a second glance, eyes narrowing just a bit as he wondered what was going on _here_. Jack shot back his own glare, a figurative punch to the face. 

"It's Vaughn," he said, breathing heavily, result of running from his office. "He went in to interrogate the Mute and, well…"

"Well _what_?" 

"The Mute attacked him," Weiss finished, turning to watch the retreating backs of his fellow officers. "I've got – "

Sydney was already running flat out in the direction of Medical Services. 

//  
  
_"But daaaaddy, I want to stay outside and play!" the spry child stood and whined, his voice's volume not seeming to match his small size. At the age of 7, little Michael wasn't one to be seen bullying other boys. His frame was small and delicate, a gene of his mother's he'd picked up to the infinite dismay of his father. _

_At 6'4", William Vaughn was a large man. His parents, natives of New York, were strong independent people, his father supporting his family as an ironworker. His frame was large yet athletic, partly attributed to his daily 10 mile run - his way of greeting the sun. He'd expected his son to be like him – tough, strong, intimidating even. Instead, it appeared as if Michael (he would never use his wife's name for his son) would be a runt, if that term applied, never growing as tall as his father. _

_At least he'd thought that last year. _

_The boy was growing into his skin, slower than his father would have liked, but growing nonetheless. He'd shot up a few inches over the last summer, William's absence and subsequent return making this growth more apparent to his eyes. _

_But he was missing his son grow up. _

_"C'mon, Mike, it's getting cold outside," William laughed. The boy, it seemed, would not be swayed, and stood tall with little fists balled at his sides. _

_"Don't care," he retorted, his lower lip sticking out as a precursor to tears. "It's not cold, and the sun's still up!" He pointed a finger at the falling sun as if his father had not seen it until now. _

_"It'll get cold when the sun's gone," his father tried. "We've got to go inside."_

_"Why?" _

_"Why what?" _

_"Why do we have to go inside?" he asked, voice raising at the end of his question. William sighed, walked over newly fallen leaves and sat at his son's side, pulling him into his lap._

_"Because sometimes, we have to do things we don't want to do," he explained. Michael's brow furrowed in confusion. From the window, a watching Amélie laughed as her son perfectly imitated his father's bemused expression. Dinner, she decided, could wait a few minutes longer. _

_"Why?"_

_William looked down across the fading light over a dying lawn. In two month's time, his family would be in France visiting ageing relatives while he was away, off around the world fighting for a cause he felt a faltering devotion too. The house would be locked up tight, pictures hanging on the walls for no one to see. _

_"Because we have to; because sometimes, we do things for others," he continued. The boy stopped squirming and twisted in his father's lap to look right at him, green eyes perfectly reflecting in his father's. _

_"Mommy says we should do things to help people," he said. _

_"Your mother's a wise woman; you should always listen to her."_

_"But how does going inside help someone?" Michael asked innocently. _

_His father shifted the small boy on his lap and hugged him close. "Because your father isn't as young as he used to. I'm sure dinner's ready by now, anyway."_

_"But I want to play with you before you leave again," the boy pouted. _

_"I know, sweetheart, I know. Daddy will come back to play again soon."_

_"No. You can't leave again! Mommy will get sad and I'll be alone!" Michael protested, his small fists thumping against his father's chest. _

_"I'm so sorry, Michael, I am. But I have to make things safe for you. One day, you'll understand."_

_"No! I won't! You'll just leave me again and never come home!" The boy jumped up from his father's lap and ran off towards the house, the door opening as he neared it with his mother standing there, worried. He wrapped his arms around her leg and cried into it. _

_"William," she said softly as he approached. "How much is enough?"_

_"What do you mean?" _

_"Look," she said, motioning down to the crying boy. "He misses you!"_

_"I know he does. Damn it, why can't you both understand what I'm doing. I'm doing it for you!"_

_"Yes, William, but at what price?"_  


He awoke with a gasp. 

It was a horrific sound, his gasp for air, the new oxygen rattling as it cascaded down his throat. His eyes opened wide right away, thankful for dimmed lighting over the – 

Oh. The pink couch.

Groaning, he threw an arm over his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He'd give his right arm for a tub of aspirin to beat back a pounding headache; he was sure whatever jackhammer making its way through his head would soon reach the other side, leaving him without the ability to even think. 

He moaned again. 

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" Sydney's voice bit out at him from the dim darkness, causing him to turn his head in her direction. He cursed silently as the movement caused his head to hurt even more, and found her sitting in one of the office's abandoned chairs, legs crossed and perfectly still. 

"What? Syd?" he asked, blinking. "Is there any way I can get some aspirin?" 

She didn't move. 

"Oh God, Syd, I don't need this right now," he groaned, twisting his head back to a more comfortable position staring at the ceiling. His arm fell back to his side, eyes finally acclimated to the lighting after his 'nap'. 

"No, Vaughn, you need this _right now_," Sydney finally said, mincing her words. "First, I find out you've lied to us, to _me_. Then, you _considered_ finding this out...this location on your own. And right when I thought you couldn't get any more stupid, you go and do this!" 

"I was only doing my job," he muttered in response, her shrill tone wrecking havoc oh his already-pounding head. 

"Since when does your job come first?"

"Since always!" he yelled back, rubbing his temples in a circular motion. 

"Remember what I said before? How you used to be the one I went to? What happened to you coming to me?"

"Forgive me if I don't lean on someone; I'm not used to depending on others," he remarked icily. Sydney huffed, considering vacating her chair and walking out of the room right there and then, leaving him to suffer in silence as he wished too. But there was something in his tone, something pained, that led her to believe leaving him was exactly what he wanted. She had to appreciate his gall; even she wouldn't wish her anger on herself at times. And while she did enjoy having some level of sarcasm from him, as she'd had in the early days of their friendship, it was out of character now, his usual kindness gone from a normally smooth voice. 

"Kendall had requested me, anyway," he commented offhand, bringing her attention back to the present. 

"Well, there's a man of considerable intelligence," she scoffed, leaning forward in her chair. She could just make out his profile in the dim light, the arch of his nose and edge of his jaw sticking out against the light invading through the blinds behind him, and even from a distance she could tell his eyes were closed. "What don't I know about the op?" 

"Hrmm?" he purred, eyebrows rising.

"Why would he send you instead of a trained officer?" she asked. Vaughn frowned. 

"Contrary to popular belief," he started slowly, "I _am_ a trained officer."

"I didn't mean it like that," Sydney backpedaled. "Just that there are people who specialize in interrogations; why wouldn't Kendall request one of them?"

"Like you said, a man of limited intelligence."

She shook her head. "I don't believe that in this case." 

Her statement caused him to shift, opening his eyes as he turned on the old pink couch to face her, propping his head up on his elbow. His eyes narrowed, prompting her to continue. 

"Unless he didn't know about the needle mark on your neck," she said, eyes connecting with his. 

"You don't understand – if I tell him, he – "

"No, I understand perfectly," Sydney cut in, "I understand completely. Maybe that's why I'm so scared. It's exactly what I would do, if I were in your position. You can't let them take you off the case."

"Exactly."

She took a breath. "But, that doesn't mean you don't look after yourself."

Vaughn swung his legs over the edge of the couch, sitting up in one swoop. He swayed a bit, bringing a hand to his head expecting to feel nothing more than his own skull and tuffs of wayward hair, and was a bit surprised to come into contact with something soft. He probed around a bit, sighing. 

"Great," he muttered, finally recognizing where the woozy feeling was coming from. He thought it odd, however, that he felt only woozy and not restricted by the pain a head wound should have produced. He'd had enough in his life – an unfortunate side effect of being the more adventurous of two children that never grew out of that 'climbing trees' phase that hit at age 10 – to know how it _should_ hurt. 

But it didn't. 

The large amount of aspirin didn't seem so important now, though the odd absense of pain set off an alarm bell in the back of his mind. He ignored it as he stretched and yawned as if awakening from a short catnap. "How long was I out?" 

"An hour. We moved you in here since Medical Serivces is locked down," Sydney replied, a bit shocked by the change in character. "I've got a plane to catch, so – "

"Where are you going?"

"Its nothing – just following up a lead that Sloane's after a server farm in Kuala Lumpur. I won't even be gone a day."

"You and Dixon?" 

She hesitated, trying to gauge his coming reaction. "And Weiss." 

"Weiss," he breathed, managing to run a hand through spiked hair around the bandage over his right temple. "Three of you for one intel retrieval?"

"You're not being left out," she said quickly, knowing, if it were here, she would be thinking there was a reason for being intentionally left behind; told to sit out of the action while others did what she felt in her heart was hers to do. "My father asked me to accompany them; it wasn't Kendall."

"Why would he do that?" 

"What?" 

"Ask you to go with," Vaughn prompted, leaning forward. He had his game face on, the one she'd seen numerous times when she explained missions to him, watching as he churned over them in his mind and formulated a plan to counter those put forth by SD-6. He could think on his feet, both a blessing and, as she was discovering at the moment when she least needed it, a curse. Already, the gears in his head started turning, going over what little information he had, trying to see what she was up to. And he could. The past had proven his intuitions about her right, something that had only improved since they grew closer. 

"Unless," he finally said, mimicking a computer printout at the end of a particularly complex equation, "he needed something only you could get for him." His eyes narrowed; the bandage on his temple shifting. "And you've agreed."

His insight was frightening, and Sydney feared it was not his skills but her own lack of such that helped him read her like an open book. The line from their first meeting came back to her with new meaning. _I have an instinct about you_. And while he had been proven correct, it didn't negate the fact that he was, and constantly continued to be, right about her. 

"Weiss said he'd have the blood test results delivered to your office before we left," she commented in response, avoiding his line of indirect questioning. Standing, she made for the exit before he could say anything more, afraid he'd be able to extract from her information hours of torture by the hands of experts could only dream to hear. Her steps, though, no matter how long and quick, were no match for his new found agelessness, and in an instant, he was standing before her, defiant, eyes blazing with the heat of an unknown fury. 

"Blood test?" His stomach churned, nausous, and he wavered on his feet a bit. 

"Yeah. He injected you with something."

"Who?" 

She paused. What was he playing at? "The prisoner, from China." 

He looked off, avoiding her now in such a way it seemed uncharacteristic, body loosing some of its tension. Off to the right, she noticed, where the eyes were drawn when attempting to retrieve something from memory. 

"Oh, right. Him," he replied, as if in a dream, not quite connecting with reality. "I thought you said – "

"You have friends, Vaughn. We're looking out for you. Just realize we're putting our asses on the line for you."

"Sounds like something Eric would say," he smirked. 

"It _was_ something Weiss said."

He nodded vaguely and leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the forehead, lips lingering over her skin not as long as she'd liked. 

"Have a good trip." 

He appeared as if he'd walk off any moment onto a cloud, just to float up into the sky and, God forbid, the cloud should dissipate, he'd fall without noticing. Preoccupied. 

"Vaughn," she tried, curious, "did he say anything to you before he knocked you out?" 

"No," he said, voice suddenly strong. "Nothing. I assume I can still monitor from here?" 

"Yeah, of course." 

He nodded, all business, and left the room, as well as a gaping Sydney, in his wake. 

//

"You think that was bad? I had to deal with Kendall."

Eric Weiss sat, or rather, lounged in his cream seat aboard one of the CIA's charter jets, dressed down and relaxing at the CIA's expense. Next to him rested an empty food carton and a large soda which he occasionally leaned over to take a sip out of. The sun was bright outside the windows, casting natural light against the others sitting in the large cabin; Sydney, who sat across from him, a notebook in her lap, and Dixon, who seemed uninterested in their conversation as he went over ops files on the table across the aisle. 

"Oh?" Sydney asked, looking up from where she was writing something – Eric had bugged her to no end, but she was a tough one. "What about?" 

"Wanted to take Mike off the case on stands of mental instability," he scoffed, sipping on his pop. "Started yelling right there in his office, go – "

"I think he had a valuable point, though."

The pair turned to where Dixon was now looking at them over the files. Weiss frowned, naturally, falling into a protective mode reserved for his best friend. 

"All I'm saying," Dixon continued, taking in their less than friendly glares, "is that Kendall wasn't out of line in suggesting that Agent Vaughn be taken off this case. In fact, it was a sound argument. By keeping him in the field, we're only increasing the chances of his knowledge falling into the wrong hands." 

"I understand that, Dixon, but if it were you, wouldn't you want to be involved?" Sydney inquired. 

"Probably, but I'm sure I'd realize the implications of my continued involvement."

Weiss held up his hands. "Wait, wait a second. You're saying that Mike should sit by and watch us do all the work? You understand this is the exactly why he joined the CIA – to find out who killed his father and why."

"Don't you both think this is something only Vaughn can decide?" Sydney closed the notebook on her lap and clipped the pen to the spiral edge, allowing them to mull over the points of the discussion. "And before you start, yes, Kendall is an objective view that would be great to make the decision for him, but Weiss is also right – this is the reason he's even around."

"You speak as if you've already discussed this with him," Dixon reflected, leaning back in his chair, stretching stiff muscles and bones. Sydney remained quiet – she should have known at least one of them would have picked up the hidden message behind her balanced words; they were trained to do as much. Weiss looked at her with such intensity, she couldn't tell if he were angry he wasn't the one to have that conversation with his friend, or was debating on if he wanted to know Vaughn's decision.

"I did, earlier, when he woke up," she sighed. 

"And?" 

She would have laughed at Weiss' eagerness if the topic weren't so heavy. "He's not leaving."

"That's his choice, then," Dixon commented, returning to his files. Sydney gave her SD-6 partner a glance, brown eyes holding his image, wondering when the line had been drawn between them. "I don't think any good will come of it."

"Right," Weiss huffed. 

"I just have a feeling."

Sydney stared down at the plain, unaltered cover of her notebook. She had learned long ago to trust Dixon's instincts, just as he'd learned to follow hers. The unspoken communication passed between partners had formed after years of working with each other, trusting each other. The implication of his words hung in the air above her head. He had a sense that Vaughn's continued involvement in the front lines of this case would result in something not to his favor, and Sydney felt it too. 

Did Weiss?

"What about you?" she asked of him, drawing his attention from the sprawling blue of Pacific Ocean outside the small window. 

"Huh?"

"What's your sense about this?" 

He sighed, face falling from the childish grin he'd had. "I've known Mike for a long time – we met a year after he was recruited. He always followed the rules to the letter no matter what. For awhile, I thought he lacked, I don't know, the drive needed to get in the field, or really do his job. But I realized it was only a way for him to bide his time until he could get high enough, have enough pull, to investigate his dad's death." He paused. "You want my opinion? I've seen my best friend jump through hoops for this, do all kinds of things, taken shit from his superiors and coworkers for this. So give it to him or else he's gonna die with regrets."  



	25. Preceeding Chaos A

** Chronic Vertigo  
Chapter Nine: Preceeding Chaos**

_ "I never think of the future - it comes soon enough."_  
Albert Einstein (1879-1955) 

Joseph Bianchi was good at what he did.

Not only did standard security systems and encryption codes pose no problem for him, a self-taught computer expert, but when it came to completing missions with discretion to the point of keeping true alliances to himself, the lying he was forced to do was like second nature. He was always amazed with those in the black market, in the underground of society – more times than not he was under the employ of two separate forces who, in addition to paying him extremely well, didn't want the other to know of his existance.

The holding company's storage unit sat adjacent to the waterfront near the edge of the city, a location he felt ill-chosen for the equipment housed within. Waves of a salty sea crashed against the aging dock full of workers, saturating the air with the single most corosive element to electronic equipment. Bianchi sneered at a trickle of water snaking its way down the poorly paved road.

He had no team –- his kindergarten teacher told him he'd never be a 'team player,' displaying keen predictave abilities his life had prooven correct. Alone, there was no one to split the money with, no one to betrayal. His trust lay only within himself, his solitary style unpredictable yet safe.

His rented Jeep fit in nicely between the dusty vehicles most likely belonging to locals aiming to make a few extra dollars by driving vacationing millionaires around. The exotic local drew throngs of those seaking adventure from the back seat of a air conditioned car, their visits lasting a few minutes and their attention less so.

Yesterday, he'd bought an old vase. 'Authentic!' the salesman had laughed, teeth missing and accent thick. The shop itself was small, run by a man who's skin resembled leather in all senses of the word. There was no access to the servers Bianchi required from there, and after a walk around, he found the rear entrance behind a pile of discarded boxes and garbage.

Though Bianchi obviously wasn't as good at his job as he'd originally thought, or else the nondescript van down the next ally and the pair of 'tourists' exiting the shop just as he pulled up would have drawn his attention.

They put their hands to their ears as soon as he disappeared around the corner.

//

Compared to the CIA offices downtown, the JTF was a cold house with furniture covered with plastic.

The agents sat out in the open as if waiting for mother to come and chastise them for venturing into her perfect room -- the constant threat keeping their posture rigid and minds focused on the task at hand for fear of waking the authority in the next room.

And so, the room buzzed with the humming of computers and hushed conversations of the more brave, though no secrets could be kept within these walls. Computer screens lay where all could see, stacks of neatly-labeled files left out for anyone to steal. In an age of descrite communications between intellegence agencies, the JTF in its self-contained glory, set out to break the record when it came to how far CIA directives could be stretched.

Which is why Michael Vaughn was pissed off when a group secretary brought a manila folder over to his desk and unceremoniously dropped it on his keyboard with a snap of her bubble-gum and a cheery 'Here ya go, hottie.'

Was there no such thing as being discrete anymore?

He glanced at his watch – 14 minutes before Sydney's op – and noted the time; enough to read through the folder delivered before donning a headset most used by the members of boy bands and pretend he was okay with sitting this one out. Grabbing the ribbon keeping the intraoffice envalope closed with his left hand, he glanced around as he unwound it and opened the flap, green eyes almost fearful of what he'd find inside. Flipping open the file, he started browsing over the preliminary findings -–

"Agent Vaughn."

He might as well have jumped in his chair. Slamming the folder closed with eye-drawing force, he swiveled in his chair and gave Jack the benifite of his tired gaze.

"What can I do for you?"

"Give me a moment of your time," he requested. Vaughn sighed, glanced again at his watch, and stood as if there were nothing wrong and he didn't have a bandage on his head. "And bring the folder."

Vaughn leaned over and swiped the file from his desk, hoping to show his discontent with the proposed conversation with his girlfriend's father through the small, non-aggressive move. But Jack Bristow didn't care how uncomfortable the boy was; he was a man who needed to get things done, the consequences of his actions never as important to him as they were to his daughter.

"What do you - "

"Not here," Jack interrupted, briskly heading away from prying ears. "Follow me."

He snaked his way around the pods of desks as discreetly as possible, ignoring unwanted attention as he led the younger agent to a less-used conference room with solid walls and a small window in the door. While he respected the privacy he so desperately needed, Vaughn found himself somewhat disturbed with the idea of being left alone in a room with Jack Bristow where no one could see what was going on.

"Take a seat, Agent Vaughn," Jack offered, sitting in an old chair at the head of the table. Taking a last glance at the outside world as the door slipped closed, Vaughn sighed, his hand tightening around the folder as he took a seat.

"I've heard about your incident with the prisoner from China. Naturally, the entire office now knows," he continued. "What they don't know, and what I hope to find out, are the contents of that conversation."

"I submitted my report to Kendall. I'm sure you can read it at your leasure," Vaughn bit out, checking his watch –- 10 minutes. Jack shifted in his seat to gain a better vantage point on his subject.

Vaughn sat across from him, straight, hands resting with interwoven fingers over the folder he'd been asked to bring in. _Protecting the contents_. His eyes, cloudy, were on the watch on his wrist, the cuff of his dress shirt pulled up to give a clear view of the watch's face. _Anxious, wanting to be involved._

Jack would have smiled, if he were a smiling man. He knew _exactly_ how to play this. "I'm sure, like many reports submitted to superiors, you have left things out. Things I want to know. And if you hope to get out of here by the time Sydney comes on comms, it would be in your best interest to answer my questions." 

He'd hit a nerve; Vaughn glanced back at his watch, then up at Jack as if mediating some heated debate in his own mind. Jack hoped he hadn't underestimated this man's devotion to his daughter and her safety, opening up to him in just enough time to leave the room and jump on comms. It was for this reason Jack had waited to sequester the younger agent when there was a definite time limit on their conversation.

Vaughn sighed and moved his hand, as if he were going to do something with it, but let it fall to the table anticlimactically. _Controlling his movements._ The key was wearing him down in the next 9 minutes. Less, if Jack were on top of his game.

"Listen, Jack, this hardly seems the time," Vaughn sighed.

"Who are you to judge when is the proper time."

"I've got to get on comms in 7 minutes – can we discuss this later?"

Jack leaned forward. _Answering questions with questions, deflecting the attention from himself and having to answer. _"I won't pretend to care, Agent Vaughn, about your poor choices and idiotic sense of morality that seems to have infected this office. But what you represent is put at risk, which is something we cannot afford right now. Your meeting alone with the prisoner was foolish at best, and if you feel the need to once again put yourself in harm's way, I will find it necessary to retain you until the feeling subsides."

"Your insults are getting a little tiring," Vaughn retorted.

"I'm glad you find some humor in this situation, because I find it lacking. It's this poor, unfocused attitude that grounded you for this mission and left you on base comms."

"I'm on comms because of a concussion."

"You're on comms because Kendall is considering pulling you from the case," Jack retorted quickly.

"What is this? A 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' situation? You're going to tell me you'll talk to Kendall if I share what I learned?" Vaughn asked. His temper was rising despite his best efforts to control it, worry lines becoming clear upon his face as his voice rose. "I'm sorry, but last time I checked, we didn't work for a criminal organization."

"I have no intention of helping you with Kendall," Jack replied simply. "I will, however, let you out of here in time to do your job properly if you cooperate."

"Nothing."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't learn anything," Vaughn stated. Jack narrowed his eyes; he couldn't tell if the boy was telling the truth or not, if he hadn't learned a thing or he was keeping something from him.

But then Vaughn shifted the folder on the table.

Bad move.

"What was so important that Agent Weiss had it sent over via courier from the main office?" Jack asked as innocently as Jack could ask a question. Vaughn stiffened, his hand reflexively tightening into a fist over the folder. Jack knew Vaughn had no idea what the file had said – he walked up just as he had finished unwinding the ribbon around the interdepartmental folder and opened it.

"I don't know," Vaughn admitted, looking down at it as if he had X-Ray vision, "I haven't had a chance to look through it."

He hadn't read it, Jack reflected, but a scan through had given him all he needed to know. Vaughn checked his watch again.

"Are we done here?" he asked. His voice was irritable but thin, stretched over so many emotions at once it could do none complete justice. A weakness, despite his horrible attempts to cover it. Em otions only got in the way.

"If you mess this up, Agent Vaughn, and allow this information to fall into hands of enemies of the CIA? I will need no excuse to kill you myself despite my daughter's attachment to you."

"Good to know," Vaughn chided offhand. "Let me express my surprise in your complete disregard for my personal well-being past my use as an object."

" Em otions cloud your judgment, Vaughn, or else you'd realize you _are_ an object, a tool to be used however we see fit."

"A tool? An object? Well, I'd imagined I'd be objectified at one point in my life, but aren't you taking this a bit literally?" he quipped. Their voices were gradually rising as they played conversational ping pong, or at least Vaughn's was, climbing above Jack's as he volleyed for his side.

"This is no time for sarcastic retorts."

Vaughn growled. "This is the perfect time for sarcastic retorts. I have a job to do Jack, something you've commented on before, and instead of being out there making sure your daughter is able to complete her mission and return home safely, I'm sitting in here with you as you pursue some personal quest," he ranted, but took a breath for a moment, scrutinizing Jack under his own untrained gaze. "What made you think I wouldn't know you pulled the FBI file on the task force my father was on?"

"Who are you, of all people, to lecture me on the safety of my daughter? Or the pulling of files behind one's back?"

Vaughn scoffed. "And you call me foolish."

"I don't investigate blindly, and the files I have pulled are directly related to this case, a case, I remind you, has only come to be because of your outburst four months ago," Jack volleyed. "You're somewhat of a masochist."

"Alright, that's it. This conversation is over."

"It hasn't even begun, Agent Vaughn. I can't believe you could be in that room for over 10 minutes and have learned nothing."

"You weren't there," Vaughn bit out.

"What does the file say?"

"Does it matter?"

Jack nodded. "Yes."

"Jesus, Jack, what is this? A witch hunt?"

"Tell me, Agent Vaughn, did your father's journals tell you what is at stake?" Jack asked, switching gears. The anger built up inside Vaughn found no outlet, the change in topic twisting his insides like a car often stalls as gears are changed mid-drive. "Codes, files, encryption. You are the only person standing between the CIA and a complete breakdown. So you understand Kendall's decision to remove you from the case and keep you sequestered until further notice."

"What?"

"You're not forthcoming with information that could redeem you, either."

"Damn it, Jack, I nothing happened!"

The outburst was unexpected, Vaughn finally reaching up to run a hand through his hair, a nervous tick that would one day give him away just as Sydney's tucking her hair behind her ear would give away her. One day, on some op in the future, someone would be there and classify it as a tell and it would end with capture or death. Now, at this moment, the tell gave Jack the verification that he'd finally broken through Vaughn's defenses. Complete with 5 minutes to spare.

"I…I swear, I can see myself going into the room and sitting down, but after that, it's all – it's fragmented, like I'm watching a movie but someone kept...God damnit, I don't know."

This was not what Jack was expecting to hear.

"Tox screen," Vaughn announced, throwing the file across the desk unceremoniously. Jack opened the file and spoke without looking up, reading over the contents.

"Under the wire?"

"According to Syd."

"Good, we can't afford to have you taken off the case."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't care what Kendall says," Jack commented, flipping a page in the file. "You're too valuable at the moment."

"Great." But it wasn't sarcastic or snippy, just a breath of air releasing the pent up pressure in his lungs. He didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad one, and Jack's previous threats on his life ran through his head. "I don't have the best drug knowledge, but I can say it's a great painkiller."

"Alters memory as well," Jack announced, scanning the page.

Vaughn clenched his jaw. "I assumed."

There was a soft knock at the door, the handle turning and opening before either had a chance to reply. A tech's head popped in, giving Jack a strange look before settling on Vaughn.

"Team just checked in," he said. Vaughn nodded and rose from his chair, leaning over to pull the file from under Jack's gaze before walking out without another word.

//

Sydney had always loved antiques.

Ever since she was a little girl, the old things found around her house captivated her imagination, plunging her into a time beyond that she knew, a happier time than her own. Photographs showed smiling families, complete, unbroken families filled with love. Children playing in fields, hearts carefree. The old things, sometimes found buried in the back corners of her childhood home's cramped basement, seemed like some kind of key to her escape for however long she could sit with them.

It wasn't an affinity she carried heavily into adulthood; the once and awhile purchase of something from a shop she passed on the way to work or school becoming her only tie to youth. So imagine her surprise at receiving an antique picture frame for Christmas one year from someone she felt didn't know her all that well.

The store's smell of age and mystery permeated the back storage room.

Dixon was familiar, a face she hadn't traveled with lately as much as she used to, but his movements and methods were still fresh in her mind. They worked well together, and despite a somewhat bumpy road filled with lies and deceit, their partnership seemed strong. He slipped through the cluttered back room, making sure not to hit the workman's table set in the center, tools and parts scattered upon it's marred surface. Sydney followed suit, giving the room a look over in case a quick exit was required.

The door to the warehouse wasn't locked, and it looked oft used, the doorknob hanging in its socket; it didn't even need to be turned to open the door. The room beyond was dark and musty, the smell here even stronger than the one in the office. The man who ran this shop appeared devoted to his work, disregarding what happened in the larger room beyond his converted storage area, and the dust seemed to grow thicker the farther into the warehouse the pair progressed. Finally, the footsteps in dust came to a halt; the shelves here empty and rotted from years of sitting next to the salt water.

Dixon gave her a sideways glance, noticing the state of the wooden shelves. Like a warning light on a car's dashboard, the pair instantly knew something was off here.

"Retriever," Sydney whispered, a finger to her ear, "how reliable was that intel?"

"Reliable enough to send three of us out," Weiss' voice crackled in her ear. The connection was weakening with every step they took. "I'm reading a large concentration of electrical energy about 20 meters to your right – this place sure uses a lot for an old antiques store."

"Could be preservation systems in a secondary storage area," Dixon suggested. Sydney shook her head.

"Look at these shelves – there's still stuff on them. If they had something like you're suggesting, then wouldn't they move these out of this area?" she asked him. He looked to the side, pondering her question as she turned to gaze over the path they'd taken thus far. "Do we have any more information on the owners?"

"Should be coming in from LA any moment," Weiss replied. Sydney took a few steps forward to gain a clearer connection, her voice muffled by a hand in ront of her mouth. They'd seen Bianchi come in the building this way, which meant the footsteps in the dust should have extended all the way back through the storage unit.

But they didn't.

"Sydney, behind you!" Dixon cried. Sydney whirled around just in time to come face to face with Bianchi, a small hand pistol pointed at her. He smirked, confidant with having the upper hand, and leveled the gun at her head.

"Hi."

"Hi," she responded with less enthusiasm than his cheerful greeting, and, waiting a second, saw Dixon signal to her to move to the right. She waited – patient, hoping he knew what he was doing, and swooped down to her right side as Dixon delivered a kick to Bianchi's right side, sending him sprawling into old shelves, a single shot ringing out in the damp room.

"Shit, what's going on in there?" Weiss shouted, half the words garbled as the fight pulled them father and farther into the single aisle of storage.

Dixon was on the man in a second, restraining him to the ground with a foot on the base of his neck. He turned to Sydney, urgency written all over his face.

"The shopkeeper won't hesitate in calling the police. Hurry and get the files, I've got him under control," he told her, motioning for her to progress through the heavy metal door at the dark end of the corridor. She ran, smirking as Dixon threatened to sedate Bianchi without the use of medication, and sprang for the door, hoping it too would be unlocked.

It wasn't.

Time was of the essence; shouts heard through the thin walls coming from the showroom floor, loud, accented voices calling out for assistance. A lock pick set came from her pocket, as the door was a standard key-lock, security looser than she'd have imagined. She gave Dixon only a quick glance as she forced the door open and walked inside, the door slamming shut behind her.

This room, to her surprise, was considerably cooler.

She took a second, only a second, to appreciate the lower level of humidity, and went to work. The walls, an eerie black, were lit only by computer monitors, the pale blue glow casting shadows over the collection of high-priced servers. Sydney found a terminal and slid into the lone chair in the room, sliding across the tiled floor to land directly in front of a monitor.

She pressed a few keys and was presented with a log in screen asking for the access code. Her eyes narrowed, examining every aspect of the screen, looking for some kind of clue. Unable to find one, she looked over the servers, wondering what secrets they held, and turned her attention to the other monitors.

_ One for each server._

While standard servers had screen terminals attached to them, these didn't, each one hooked up to a separate terminal.

_ Through a junction_ .

"Dixon!" she yelled almost frantically through her earpiece, hoping the metal walls would allow her signal through. "They're cycling servers! I need the system's access code!"

"All right, hold on," Dixon replied, his voice foggy. She could hear some scuffles, nothing too loud, and Bianchi cry out.

She tapped her foot as she waited, mentally counting down the time it would take the authorities to arrive. And being discovered illegally entering a building in Malaysia wasn't the best outcome to this mission, however ill-conceived.

"062777," Dixon said suddenly. Sydney typed in the code, hoping there was no failsafe in place if Bianchi decided death was a worthy alternative to failure.

"Are you sure?" she asked, apprehensive, her finger hovering over the enter key.

"Positive," Dixon replied. Giving no thought to the methods of extraction he'd used, she hit enter. 


End file.
